The Other Woman
by Aussiegirl41
Summary: After spending the Season together in London, Mrs Hughes and Mr Carson decide to keep in touch.
1. Chapter 1

I stared down at the envelope which had been part of this morning's mail delivery. The writing was instantly recognisable even though I only had the chance to decipher the sloping script for the first time a few months ago. As promised, Mr Carson, the Grantham's esteemed butler, had sent me a letter.

The Season had all but officially finished and the Yorkshire natives were leaving London when Mr Carson had come into the sitting room to bid me farewell.

"I was wondering…"

"Yes?" I prompted, when he hesitated and fidgeted with the buttons of his travel coat.

"While I've been here, I've come to enjoy our talks."

"As have I." Conversation flowed easily between us, despite our limited acquaintance.

"And as such, I wondered if we could occasionally correspond."

"Correspond?" I frowned, slightly confused as to his intent.

He didn't answer immediately. Instead he turned and closed my sitting room door, effectively blocking out the busyness of the hallway. The last of the trunks was being loaded onto the autos, all ready to be transported to the train station. The family members were already en route, and the Abbey's servants would soon follow.

"Just news about the family," he continued. "Snippets, I should like to call them, that I think you might find amusing."

Amusing? His demeanour at that moment was hardly jovial. He was holding himself very still and stretching his entire six-foot-something-ridiculous height to its fullest. His expression was most serious and I kept just as solemn in response.

It reminded me that I had yet to see him laugh. Even his smiles I had witnessed up to now had been rare. He was every bit the controlled butler one hears about in idle servant chatter, but wonders if they exist in real life.

Yet as far as I knew, this was real life, and this great man had deemed me worthy of his interest, albeit on a small scale.

He was smoothing down the pockets of his coat now and I had the urge to reach out and grasp his hands, to hold them still, to cradle them in my much smaller ones. I resisted, of course.

Instead, I found myself speaking in a rush: "It would make a pleasant change, I agree, Mr Carson, to be up to date with the latest comings and goings of the family."

I hoped I wasn't sounding like I was eager for gossip, even though in some ways I _was_ desperate for it. My view of the Crawley family was so narrow. It would be such a great advantage to see the full picture.

"I could talk to Mrs Bute and ask if she would like to pass on any tips for you also."

I felt my mouth tighten at that offer. Mrs Bute… It was very uncharitable of me to dislike someone so intensely before I'd even met them.

"Perhaps," I said in a tone that I hoped offered no encouragement in that direction but didn't sound rude nevertheless.

"Good. It's settled then," he said.

My bottom lip bore the brunt of my anxiety regarding this supposed settlement. Before I found any words to express my trepidation, however, he'd donned his bowler hat and stalked out into the hallway, barking orders and hurrying everyone along to ensure all those concerned respected the train timetable.

I ran my tongue over my bottom lip now, realising from the ragged skin I had been worrying it for the past few minutes.

Mrs Tomkinson, the cook, obviously hadn't missed my reaction, judging from her speculative gaze.

I slipped the letter into my pocket, ignoring her the best I could. But she wasn't the type to take the hint.

"The return address is from the big house. Shouldn't you check and see if we need to make preparations? One of the family members might be on his way."

"I'm sure they'd send a telegram if there was such a spontaneous trip," I said, leaving the letter right where it was. I might have been fretting I was becoming a busybody as I aged, but there was no doubt Mrs Tomkinson had already taken up the mantle. There was no way I was going to give her any chance to spread unfair rumours about a gentleman like Mr Carson.

She was not one to yield so easily, however. She contemplated if the letter contained a list of things we should improve upon before the family's next visit, and if so, whether or not Mrs Bute had composed the list. I retaliated by wondering aloud if Mrs Patmore's letter had gone astray.

And so it went on, until I felt a headache threatening from trading volleys with the cook.

Eventually, I managed a moment of complete privacy to retrieve the letter from my pocket. I couldn't lock the sitting room door, but I did choose a time when one of the maids or Mrs Tomkinson was unlikely to interrupt. For all her faults, Mrs Tomkinson was dedicated to her cooking and leaving the kitchen just prior to dinner, even if it was only the servants who planned on eating, wouldn't cross her mind.

Still, I sat with my back against the wall, facing the door should it open with news of some emergency or other. This was unlikely to occur when no family members were in residence, I knew, but it still gave me a sense of security.

It also reminded me of the times I'd sat just so, Mr Carson occupying the other straight backed chair, and only the low side table separating us.

It had been about a month into the Season when he'd knocked upon my door and for the first time offered me a sherry. He'd complimented me on the smooth way the household was running, considering. There had always been the need for major adjustments in the past, he'd said, when integrating the London and Yorkshire staff.

Along those lines I had thought he'd come to my room to give me some sort of speech regarding work being incompetently or inadequately carried out by one of the London household. Offering praise instead of critique had left me speechless.

Soon enough, we got into a routine, Mr Carson and I. Each evening he would drop into my sitting room to share a glass of whatever surplus wine or port was on hand, and to talk. We recounted the day's activities mostly, or made tentative plans for the next family event. Our brief acquaintance would not allow anything more intimate and if I imagined such an atmosphere I chided myself for such fanciful notions.

I didn't imagine it though when, as the days and weeks of the Season rolled by faster and faster, I started to be consumed with a sense of melancholy. The house would soon be quiet once more and I would return to my meagre set of duties, after which I would again need to be content with my own company.

As my mood fluctuated, I also became aware that any good humour Mr Carson had displayed previously was quickly disappearing. I heard his raised voice more in the last week of his stay, a time when the atmosphere should be at its least tense given numbers of the peerage withdrawing back to the country, than any other since he'd arrived.

I fantasised that he was as disheartened as I was that our time together would soon be at an end. I even had the lofty idea he might suggest I take up some vacant position at Downton. No job offer was forthcoming, of course. This was when I knew I was getting old and silly and that a healthy dose of reality would not be disadvantageous.

As it turned out the much anticipated letter would completely burst my utopian bubble.

 _Dear Mrs Hughes,_

One might have thought I was going to slowly savour each word, searching for hidden messages or meanings, but I didn't. I quickly read the entire letter through in less than five minutes flat.

It was three pages long and, as promised, was a collection of Crawley family anecdotes.

I turned it over and checked the back of each page, as if some private information of Mr Carson's would suddenly appear and give me some insight into his mind and soul. It didn't, obviously.

I folded the letter back into my pocket and began to mentally compose several letters of reply, the faint din of the kitchen subtly reminding me that I still had responsibilities beyond corresponding with a fellow senior servant.

My letter, when it was finally written and sealed within an envelope which would be pushed through the slot of the mailbox at the end of the road, contained a series of misadventures featuring Mrs Tomkinson and myself and a cake recipe. I mirrored his style, keeping the tone lighthearted, and offered not the slightest glimpse of anything truly private or personal.

This pattern continued right through the summer months. I was soon knowledgeable when it came to Lady Mary's talents, King George's ideals, and the English cricket team's upcoming South African tour. I read about decanting port, polishing silver, and the regulation width which must be left between cutlery when setting a formal table.

Thankfully, there were no helpful household hints from Mrs Bute. My patience was not everlasting.


	2. Chapter 2

Summer continued and yet I found no comfort in the warmth with which it favoured to grace London.

I sombrely plodded through my daily duties, ignoring the chance to leisurely linger in the city's gardens or sightsee at any of the places that so many other people found of interest.

I took the necessary trips to one merchant or another related to my position. I attended church. I brooded for many hours in either my small sitting room, or my (even smaller) bedroom.

Mr Carson remained in Yorkshire. Not that this fact had any bearing on my staid mood, of course.

Lady Mary deemed us with her presence. I had difficulty with associating the young woman I witnessed swanning around London - stepping out with many men despite my understanding that she had pledged her hand to Patrick Crawley - with the sweet butterfly of a girl Mr Carson described in his letters.

My only conclusion was that she must act differently in front of the butler, with the aim he view her in a positive light. That, I acknowledged as I sorted through her frocks and fancies with the young maid Anna, could quite possibly be the _only_ thing she and I would ever have in common.

Lord Grantham also visited on several occasions, but only with his valet, Mr Watson. I'd not met Mr Watson previously as he'd been recovering from a series of illnesses during my first Season, leaving the footman, Thomas, to fulfil his duties. It certainly didn't take me long to determine the origin of Mr Watson's frequent maladies.

Each evening while in residence, his rawboned frame reached its limit of alcoholic beverages with such speed that it was clear he'd began his consumption quite some time prior. His eyes were glassy by luncheon, and bright red veins popped prominently down the side of his nostrils by the dinner gong. During his stay, he confused me with his slurring speech and broke several dishes at the dining table.

Upon his departure, when I was required to clean his room, I found that he was not only a drunk but a slovenly one at that.

I tried to convey how inappropriate I thought Mr Watson's behaviour was in my next letter to Mr Carson - discreetly. Mr Carson had never written, well or ill, of any staff in his letters, and I was mindful I shouldn't overstep the boundaries of appropriateness myself.

I thought I might not have managed to reach that delicate balance when no return letter was forthcoming. My concern grew when the post would arrive, twice daily, with nothing more than accounts, periodicals and catalogues. I consoled myself that there was no letter informing me my services were no longer required either.

In fact, it was almost a month after I'd sent the letter detailing my disgust with Mr Watson before I received my first privately addressed letter.

 _Dear Elsie,_ it began. I read it through quickly, slack-jawed with surprise, and completely overwhelmed by its unexpected content.

Before I could begin to sort out my feelings regarding this new missive, however, I was to receive a visitor. I saw him into the kitchen and waited politely for some explanation as to his appearance.

Even when he offered it to me, I found it difficult to believe. This man had been employed as Lord Grantham's new valet?

A telegram was delivered directly from Downton confirming his appointment, nevertheless. I was instructed to make Mr Bates comfortable before Lord Grantham's arrival, which was to be the next day.

"I've not yet been to the abbey, but there's bound to be stairs…" I stared pointedly at the man's obviously crippled leg which he'd stretched out to the side of his chair.

"I'll find a way to cope."

I was still concerned. Valets shared the duties of a footman. With one hand needed to stay braced upon his cane, balancing a salver would be out of the question. "What if-"

"I need employment, Mrs Hughes," he interrupted, his determined expression quietly demanding my respect. "I can't say why…"

I thought of the letter I'd carefully placed within the papers of the top drawer of my small desk. It elicited memories of my own imperfections.

"I haven't even offered you a cup of tea," I murmured, bustling guiltily to rectify the situation. Turning towards the stove, I never caught Mr Bates's reaction to my next grumbled statement: "As long as you're not predisposed to drink, I shall be happy."

At that stage I did hear the back door open, but for some foolish reason I'd simply assumed it was the kitchen maid, Betsy, returning early for the evening and never bothered to look up from my tea-making task.

"We all have hurdles to overcome, I suppose," I went on blithely. "We all have secrets we hide."

"Bates!"

I swung around then to find, shockingly, Lord Grantham entering the house through the servants' entrance. Even more shockingly, he reached out and pumped the newly employed valet's hand eagerly.

Anna demurely eased her way into the room behind her employer. I would find out later that Lady Mary was the only other Crawley who'd taken this particular trip to London. She had, of course, chosen to enter the house more conventionally, via the front door.

Another man entered next, taking my breath away and cramping the room of the kitchen instantly. His gaze settled immediately upon my face, exacerbating the red tinge creeping across my pale skin.

I tried to remember just what I had been saying to Mr Bates. How much had Mr Carson heard?

"I didn't expect…" I stared down at my boots, noting their lack of shine. The kitchen floor, too, could have had a scrub before his arrival. The house was nowhere near shipshape enough to accept the butler.

"The telegram said to expect you in the morning," I finally blurted out. "It's Mrs Tomkinson's half day."

"We changed our plans, Mrs Hughes," Lord Grantham told me in a genial tone, apparently unperturbed by my gracelessness. "We've eaten luncheon on the train, and we'll be dining out at my club tonight, so there shouldn't be too much disruption due to our early arrival."

This didn't set my mind at rest. After all, it was Mr Carson and not the family who I was concerned would judge my meagre makings of a meal and the house's general lack of spit and polish.

I felt his scrutiny eventually pass from my hot cheeks to Mr Bates's cane and leg. He was surely contemplating the complications such a handicap would create. His mouth thinned, but he refrained from any comment. The valet's acquaintanceship with Lord Grantham obviously overruling any objections he might have at that moment.

Then, his gaze returned to my flushed face. "I'm sure Mrs Hughes is underestimating her housekeeping skills, m'lord," he said, surprising me with his praise, however small. I'd learnt he wasn't the type of man to throw around compliments willy-nilly. "I'm positive you will be extremely comfortable here this week," he added, confirming the duration of their visit. The telegram had indicated this specific, but hadn't mentioned just which family or staff we were to accommodate.

Soon, Lord Grantham made his way upstairs, along with Mr Bates, who was charged with settling in his lordship. Anna also hurried off to check on her mistress.

Only Mr Carson and I remained in the kitchen.

It had been almost four months since he'd last been in London. Fully taking in his appearance, I realised he was every bit as impressive as I remembered. He was still perfectly groomed, with impeccably pressed clothes and neat hair, after his long journey from Downton.

I lowered my eyes once more and studied the hem of my dress, thankful that at least my ankles were adequately covered even if my boots were dull and dirty.

I remained modest and silent. Since his departure, I'd thought long and hard about how I would interact with Mr Carson when he returned, considering our correspondence.

I still had not fully decided which manner I would adopt. I thought it best to allow him to make the first move, and simply follow his lead.

I regretted that decision when he uttered his opening statement: "Mrs Bute sends her regards."


	3. Chapter 3

For the moment, we were completely alone, Mr Carson and I. A rarity for servants, but especially for a butler employed by a family such as the Granthams.

The perception that a butler's life was an isolated one was largely a misrepresentation. When a butler was not with the family, he was in the company of staff downstairs.

But alone and lonely were two different things.

Butlers were never offered respite from their obligations. They needed to embody their station at all times. A good butler should be inferior to the family he served but superior to the staff he led. A housekeeper was the only person who could perhaps meet him in the middle.

As such, I wanted to ask him about his health, his happiness, his general well-being. I did not care a fig about discussing the seemingly perfect Yorkshire housekeeper he usually worked alongside.

"I'm surprised Mrs Bute's sending her regards," I snapped. "Considering we've never met."

His mouth thinned at my flippancy, but he made no comment. Nor did I. The kitchen's quietness became exaggerated. Without the usual din of crockery and cutlery, only our matching frustrated breaths filled the room. I'd created quite the atmosphere with my silly temper.

The sound of a bell made us both jump and look quickly towards the board. Only then did I realise it wasn't Lord Grantham nor Lady Mary demanding our attention, but the ring of the bell located outside the kitchen door. Something I usually would have instantly discerned from the pitch.

Mr Carson was a definite distraction.

I opened the door to young Bert, our mailman. As usual, the young lad was eager for a chat, but I cut him off as politely as possible. It would never do for Mr Carson to think I frittered away my time gossiping.

Automatically I sorted through the mail while nudging the door closed with my hip.

When I turned and looked towards Mr Carson, he was wearing the most peculiar expression. Was he still irritated? Only he looked suddenly more flustered than angry.

"The post," I said, holding the delivery aloft before placing a couple of letters addressed to Mrs Tomkinson into her basket. There was one letter for me, and one was for Mr Carson.

I found myself staring at his hands as he accepted it and smoothly prised apart the seal. The contrast of their size and the tiny envelope made me slightly breathless.

"Who would know I was here in London?" he asked, echoing my own emerging puzzlement. According to the post mark, the letter hadn't come from Yorkshire.

"Maybe it's a salesman wanting-" I stopped mid-sentence. I was now suggesting he had not one personal acquaintance here in London that might send him a letter other than myself? Everyone had a past, even Mr Carson.

I realised I would like to meet his siblings, should he have any. And his nieces or nephews, if they existed.

Or the letter could be from an old friend. Or a former sweetheart...

Flushing, I busied myself by skimming the contents of my own letter. It was a handsome letter, I'd give it credit. The simple truth, however, was that its words didn't make my heart skip. I read them as I would a list of staples for the house that must be purchased. I wouldn't be pining for another missive in the same vein. Not like I did each time I waited for a letter from the gentleman standing a few feet in front of me, reading his own mysterious one.

"Mrs Hughes, I might..."

I glanced over when he drifted off. He was turning the envelope over and over, checking the sender's address, and then checking it again. That cool and tidy exterior I'd admired when he'd first arrived was seemingly crumbling before me.

"Are you alright, Mr Carson? Is it bad news?"

"No," he far too quickly replied.

I stepped closer, ready to offer comfort and was immediately overwhelmed by his scent. I'd gotten used to it during the last Season; that fusion of silver and boot polish, carbolic soap and Brilliantine. Now, however, it unexpectedly surrounded me and I baulked, forgetting whatever I was about to say as I absorbed the distinct maleness of his fragrance.

"Mr... Mr Carson..." I'd only stammered out his name when I was interrupted by the clock striking the hour. By habit, I counted its chimes even though I knew it must be four, considering the mid-afternoon mail delivery.

"I should… I should go…" Mr Carson was also stammering. So very unlike him. "Go check on Lord Grantham," he finished. He clenched his fist around his letter, crushing it into a paper ball. "I'm not completely sure the new valet will be quite right for the position."

"Time will tell," I murmured, remembering that steely streak I'd seen in Mr Bates's expression earlier.

At that comment, Mr Carson merely grunted before turning to climb the stairs.

I stood, lost, in the middle of the kitchen, willing my good sense to return. I had things to attend to, after all. A long list, and only myself to see to it. Mr Carson would not continue to praise me if I behaved like some foolish scullery maid each time I received visitors without notice.

I started by dragging open the stove's firebox and adding more wood. Next, I placed the stew Mrs Tomkinson had left for dinner onto the heat before I lifted the pot's lid and tasted the concoction. A pleasing blend of herbs and spices reached my palate, at least. However, there was the problem of quantity. The dish was meant to feed only myself and Betsy, but now it would need to stretch to also feed Mr Bates, Anna, and Mr Carson.

And it seemed the young kitchen maid was choosing today of all days to be late. So much for my perceived ability to oversee staff.

I ran through my meagre catalogue of memorised recipes and mentally settled on dumplings. Surely I could manage them, I thought, retrieving a bowl and the necessary ingredients.

After adding the round balls of dough to the pot, along with a little extra brandy, I headed for the linen press to check on what was fresh. I moved some items to the airing cupboard and some to the laundry basket, and then I returned to my sitting room to draft two letters for the evening post.

The first one was for the agency. I'd need at least two maids to start first thing in the morning.

The second one was much more difficult to pen. I might be jumping ahead of myself with the circumstances and proposals I thought I should be addressing. With Mr Carson's arrival, however, I had no time to dilly-dally about the finer points of Joe's letter writing skills.

"Lady Mary and Lord Grantham have just left for the evening."

The baritone voice speaking to me from my sitting room's doorway gave me such a fright that I smudged ink across the page. I then managed to make the mark worse when, not wanting the voice's owner to look over my shoulder and read anything I'd written thus far, I folded the letter hurriedly.

"We should think about eating," Mr Carson pointed out sensibly, his head bobbing comically as I tore up the letter enough times to ensure the remnants could not be pieced back together. "We will all need to be alert when his Lordship and Lady Mary return," he added as I flung the scraps into my sitting room's as yet unlit hearth.

I nodded vaguely and turned, planning on following him to the kitchen.

The butler did not budge though. He even stepped sideways, to block my exit.

"Mr Carson?" I asked with a distinct quiver in my tone.

"You have a streak of flour..." He gestured towards my cheek.

"Oh, I made dumplings," I said inanely, rubbing my cheek furiously. What sort of fright must I look? I lifted my eyebrows, silently asking if I'd removed the dusting.

He shook his head. "May I?" he asked, lifting his hand.

I could only nod again, my throat was constricted so. I felt faint with the knowledge that Mr Carson's skin was to touch mine...

As it turned out, I was to be disappointed. He'd instead retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket to use.

After he'd cleaned the spot, he quickly took a pace backwards. "There," he rasped. "We should go and taste the fruits of your labour."

I bit my lip worriedly. Cooking was not something I indulged in often or on a whim. My efforts might result in the butler recognising yet another area I was lacking.

Not that I'd hid my faults from Mr Carson when we'd previously spent time together. No, I actually thought it might have been the opposite, and I'd bared my flaws much too readily. And heaven knew, at my age, and given his judgemental attitude, I had many many failings.

Yet when talking to him during the last Season I'd felt, for the first time during my long career in service, I was revealing my true self to a fellow servant. This thought terrified me as much as it pleased me.

Still, for the most, I would've liked to have limited my display of incompetence, but it wasn't to be.

The sharp smell of charred and baked-on stew greeted us as we entered the kitchen.

I bustled over to remove the pot from the stove - ineptly. The cloth I used was far too thin and even as I felt a shot of pain, I daren't not let go and drop onto the floor what little stew we had left.

After placing the burning dish onto one of the thick wooden chopping boards, I waved my stinging hand around, as if I could flick the pain away.

Another rush of intense heat soon hit me. This one was much more pleasant, permeating through the thick layers of my dress when Mr Carson's long fingers dug into my waist to lead me to the sink.

"Foolish woman," he muttered. He then softly gripped my wrist, pushing my hand under the slow running water. The pain numbed as I shifted all my attention to the sensation of his cool touch.

My mind was quite blank by the time Anna and Mr Bates entered the kitchen. It was just as Mr Carson was shuffling a stool close and propelling me into it. I did notice them share a look though. They too must have thought I was a ninny.

Then, just to add to the witnesses of my clumsiness, Betsy burst through the back door in her usual robustly youthful way.

She and Anna assessed the situation faster than I could have imagined and, apparently thinking I was being tended to adequately by Mr Carson, went about salvaging our dinner.

"Ï mustn't have added enough water." I was clearly stating the obvious, but I needed something to distract me from studying every minute detail of Mr Carson's head as he bent to inspect the damage I'd inflicted upon myself.

His hair was thick and wavy and there wasn't one single bald patch.

"It's not too serious," he eventually announced, interrupting me from my wayward musing about that _one_ curl before he gently placed my hand into my lap.

I made to stand, thinking he was going to leave it at that, but he pressed down upon my shoulder, urging me back into the chair.

He moved to cut a sliver of butter off the slab. Next, he softly applied the greasy substance to the blisters already forming along my fingers and palm.

"Thank goodness Mrs Tomkinson will be back later tonight," I uncharacteristically whispered, a feeble attempt at humour to take my mind off his large hand now cradling mine.

"Yes, indeed!" Mr Carson agreed, a little too heartily for my liking. "You should need to ensure she and young Betsy aren't gone at the same time again," he scolded.

My shoulders sagged. It was his next statement, however, that made my face burn hotter than my hand.

"Perhaps you should send Mrs Bute a letter, asking her how she arranges such things."


	4. Chapter 4

It was almost a half an hour later when we finally sat down to eat our dinner, which was now best described as dumplings accompanied by a sticky sauce. The meat Mrs Tomkinson had used in the dish was mostly burnt onto the pot's base and soaking in a sink full of soapy water.

"Nevermind, Mrs Hughes," Mr Carson announced after washing down his first mouthful of the slop with a good gulp of water. "One doesn't suppose every housekeeper started out as a kitchen maid."

At this statement, I must have looked confused, because Anna leaned forward to offer some context. "I believe Mrs Bute started her career as a kitchen maid."

But, of course she did. I imagined her regularly charming Mr Carson with her baked delights while I served up sludge as a main course.

Mr Carson went on: "Yes, her first position was kitchen hand at Downton itself, back when the Dowager Countess was still mistress."

His intimate knowledge of the other housekeeper's background made the chewy dumpling lodge in my throat. I calculated the years since the Dowager had been in residence at Downton, but conceded that kitchen maids could be as young as nine or ten, so Mrs Bute's age could still compare to mine.

"I had to make do with less in the war," Mr Bates remarked, not exactly filling me with the confidence he was hoping, considering the problems with starvation and disease in Africa.

"And I when I was young," Anna added quietly. Even though I knew no details of the recollection we'd unknowingly stirred for the young girl, my heart went out to her as she pushed the contents of her plate around despondently.

"Only a lucky few have a carefree upbringing," I offered.

"What about you, Mr Carson?" Anna asked, shaking off her bad memories and again joining in the conversation.

"Pardon?"

"Your past, Mr Carson?"

Mr Carson's knife and fork hung in midair. "What about my past?" he snapped.

"Well, I-"

"There's nothing interesting in my past," he assured us all. "I started out as a hallboy at Downton and here I am. If you work hard, you can make a success of your life."

I stared at Mr Carson as the others quickly made a show of going back to eating. He had started as a hallboy at Downton. Could he and Mrs Bute have known each other since they were very young? Had they almost grown up together? Loyalty was an important adage in Mr Carson's life, and he'd only met me last Season.

Later that night, while I still brooded over the details of the family's unplanned visit, Mr Carson came by my sitting room. He carried a decanter of what I supposed was port.

"I just wanted to check on your hand."

"Oh, I'll survive, Mr Carson," I said, waving my injured hand around vaguely to show him my stoicism. Unfortunately the truth was the cramping pain was giving me quite the headache.

"I never doubted it," he said, his voice so gentle it caused me to sway on the spot.

He stepped closer, not helping with my equilibrium by arousing my senses yet again, and bent his head towards my wounded hand. I'd haphazardly wrapped a bandage around it to cover the bulging blisters an hour or so ago, but I'd then fussed around with one job and another, meaning the fabric was now unfurling and hanging loose.

"I don't think I'm going to be in demand for my nursing skills either," I murmured, attempting humour to hide the distinct tinge of excitement growing within me at his proximity.

"You'll need someone to…" His hand hovered above mine. Then, he offered an excuse for the loose wrapping: "You can't expect to make a good go at it using only your left hand."

"Yes," I agreed softly. Then, I held my breath, waiting to see if he would offer to assist.

"You should ask Anna," he disappointingly finally suggested, stepping back.

I bit my bottom lip. Thankfully one of us still had a clear head, ensuring nothing could be misconstrued with our relationship.

"Yes, she's already offered," I admitted. "She's such a treasure," I added sincerely. "She's going to drop by my room before she retires."

"Oh." He glanced at the door as if the young maid was going to burst in and hurl accusations at us at any moment. "Do you have time for one of these still?" he asked, gesturing towards the port he'd placed on the table.

I thought about it for a moment. I really should head straight to bed, considering the amount of times I'd already acted inappropriately in front of Mr Carson since his arrival in London. The temptation to just sit and chat, however, was far too great. I fetched two glasses and offered him a chair.

Our conversation centred upon the conventional.

We sipped the port and spoke of books, poetry, and art. Only when the subject of music and theatre was broached did Mr Carson hesitate. I put this down to fatigue. He'd travelled from Yorkshire that day, after all.

I took it as a sign, however, that I should excuse myself to go and meet with Anna.

I couldn't help but compare Anna's company with Mr Carson's as we sat together. Whereas he had asked questions and really listened to my replies, she seemed completely preoccupied by the new valet, rattling off question after question about Mr Bates that I had little hope of answering.

Although I'd found her to be the most trustworthy of the servants during the last Season, I even found myself giving her my well-rehearsed spiel regarding young maids and male servants and standards of behaviour.

"You'll find yourself being dismissed," I warned.

"I'm only wondering about Mr Bates, Mrs Hughes," she insisted. But then, tellingly: "Love at first sight only happens in romantic novels."

I tried to keep my housekeeper's hat on. "Affairs of the heart, and affairs of the flesh, are considered far too distracting. Your vocation should always take precedence. According to your employers, they always come first."

"Do you believe that though, Mrs Hughes?" she asked.

I frowned, turning the way I'd been acting like a flibbertigibbet in front of the butler over in my mind before I settled on an answer.

"Affairs of the flesh, I do. Only those bound by marriage should cross over into that territory." Mr Carson's hands sprung into my mind from nowhere. "No matter what the temptation," I added, my tone emphatic.

"And affairs of the heart?"

I patted the young girl's knee. "No one can control such things, lass. The only thing we should do is control our tongue. One must wait for the man in question to tell us if we hold a piece of his heart before one makes any foolish confessions."

I would never know if she thought my advice as archaic or not. I did, however, repeat those same words to myself many times after this conversation.

I had little time to make any declarations regarding my heart to Mr Carson over the next few days, however. Both he and I were run off our feet with the demands of the household.

The guest numbers fluctuated with dinners and luncheons with numerous friends and family of the Crawleys. Mr Carson still found his way into my sitting room each evening, and I did enjoy his company, even if it was only for a few minutes or so before we both lost the battle with fending off our tiredness.

I received yet another letter from Joe, and I continued to delay with any reply. I thought it best to wait until I had more time on my hands, and less company, to write a thoughtful and detailed letter of return.

I couldn't be sure as to whether or not Mr Carson received any more mysterious personal letters as he took it upon himself to accept the mail from young Bert on the household's behalf each day. Most likely in an attempt to curb the young man's enthusiasm for idle chatter.

During the week, Lady Mary's behaviour did not amount to me altering my opinion of her. Between them, Anna and Mr Carson jumped to the eldest Crawley daughter's bidding constantly. Mr Carson even disappeared from the house a few times. I would assume to run some sort of errand for his young mistress. And as he always returned empty handed, I would guess she had sent the gentleman on one wild goose chase after another.

And, on the final morning of the family's visit, Mr Carson came to see me, early, as I still lingered in my sitting room before breakfast.

I looked up, a smile already spread across my face in greeting. It soon faded, however, given his anxious demeanour.

"Mrs Hughes, I need to talk to you about Mrs Bute."


	5. Chapter 5

I woke and, as was now my habit, looked straight up. The tiny pane of glass above my head was still my favourite thing about Mrs Bute's bedroom.

Of course, considering the early hour, it was far too dark to see anything in particular. There might not even be much more of a view later, given that the days were growing shorter and shorter. Winter had well and truly arrived and brought with it as much gloom to Yorkshire as it would London.

Indeed, I would surely shiver once I removed the blanket I had tucked tightly around me. I'd soon discovered despite its enviable position and size, the housekeeper's bedroom lacked any real warmth. The only solution I'd come up with to this problem so far was to dilly-dally in the downstairs sitting room for far too long each night.

Mrs Bute had not thought it necessary to heat that room either.

"She always remarked that her Scottish blood fortified her," Mr Carson informed me when I'd questioned the unwelcome chill in the air.

"Well, my Scottish blood is a touch more glacial," I'd confessed.

I'd taken it upon myself to rectify the situation. Mr Carson had been in York with Lord Grantham the day I arranged for a sweep to come in, considering the chimney's state was largely unknown.

It was past ten o'clock that night when Mr Carson returned to the abbey. Someone must have, _helpfully_ , informed him of the flurry of activity necessary to clear the chimney. Miss O'Brien or Thomas, I supposed.

He entered the sitting room as I was settled at the desk, pouring over the rosters, trying to grasp Mrs Bute's system.

He never greeted me as such, simply strode over to where the embers of the earlier blaze smouldered. I remained mute while he fussed over the edge of the fireplace, mumbling something under his breath about ensuring the hearth and grate were safe. Then, after a few minutes of this scrutiny, abruptly, he straightened and left the room.

I stared out towards the hallway, biting my lip, wondering if he was angry because I'd basically made a huge change to Mrs Bute's domain within the first few days of my occupying it. I'd also done so without consulting him.

What would he say when I proposed changing these convoluted rosters?

"I can't believe how little they drank of this."

I blinked. He'd returned to the sitting room, without knocking this time, carrying a glass decanter.

"I like this," he said, motioning to the table I'd set out in the room also. I'd planned to take tea on it mainly.

"I found it stored at the back of the scullery," I said, quickly finding my voice. I didn't wish to argue with him, after all, and if he was willing to let the subject of the fireplace drop, so was I. "Daisy had been kicking her toe upon its edge for months apparently," I continued conversationally. "Young William dusted it off for me and I scoured the linen press until I found a suitable tablecloth to spread over its roughened top."

Mrs Bute had one chair for visitors in the room and I'd placed it one side of the table. Mr Carson lowered himself into it and made a motion with his hand, encouraging me to drag over the desk chair to join him.

I fretted. This wasn't tea. "These rosters-"

"Will wait. It's late. And this"- he poured some of the red wine into a glass- "will do wonders for that thin Scottish blood you mentioned."

I laughed and enjoyed his company that night and most nights since. My procrastination had everything to do with the cosy atmosphere of the sitting room compared to this bedroom, I'm sure.

I was grateful Mr Carson could be relied upon to offer me a tot of something to give me a mild glow before retiring to the frigid attics though. He could be such a considerate gentleman at times.

It was he who had arranged for me to work in Yorkshire. On the last day of his unscheduled visit in London he'd received news of Mrs Bute.

"It's her sister, you see."

I froze. Any talk of sisters made me edgy.

"She's gravely ill," he continued.

I murmured sympathies and nodded at the appropriate times as Mr Carson went into a long winded list of symptoms and conjecture surrounding the woman's illness and time left on Earth. It was quite a lengthy report, leading me to guess he had received a letter from the Yorkshire housekeeper rather than a telegram.

"So you see," he finished off, "Lady Grantham has granted Mrs Bute some time to travel to Perth to be with her."

"That's very generous. If her sister should linger…" I felt awful for suggesting it was preferable that Mrs Bute's sibling should die quickly, but the reality was employers barely gave those in service consideration to make arrangements for their dead, let alone nurse ones on their sick beds.

My less than generous thoughts could have also stemmed from my guilt. Even though my sister would not remember should I visit or not, I was still deeply ashamed at high number of years that had passed since I'd seen her last.

"She's Mrs Bute's twin," Mr Carson said, his tone conveying that the housekeeper and her sister had some affinity that added to his and Lady Grantham's empathy. "Plus I've assured Lady Grantham we have a capable replacement ready and waiting."

I thought of Miss O'Brien and her tight-lipped expression. She would, at least, be strict and deter staff from carrying on inappropriately. I wondered about her relationship with Mrs Patmore. Whilst in London during my first season, she hadn't mentioned the cook in glowing terms, but as she hadn't mentioned anyone in glowing terms, this was little indication.

I was still thinking of the effort it would take for some to utter the name 'Mrs O'Brien', including myself, even in letter form if necessary, when Mr Carson rendered me speechless for quite a long moment: "I've arranged for you to return with us and take over at Downton for the foreseeable future."

"Be housekeeper? At Downton?" I eventually asked for clarification out loud, fretful I could be misinterpreting the butler.

"Yes. Only until Mrs Bute returns," he quickly specified.

"Of course," I repeated faintly.

Almost three months had passed since.

I thought the family had accepted me into their country home, but at times I saw quite clearly the way they favoured their Downton servants, Mr Carson especially.

I still felt the outsider amongst the staff too.

They laughed at things I'd never witnessed, made cutting remarks that flew over my head, covered for each other when need be.

Miss O'Brien's tartness continued on here as much as it had in London. She too must have been thinking along the lines of promotion when Mrs Bute had travelled to Scotland.

Mrs Patmore was standoffish and just as arrogant as Mrs Tomkinson. During our first meeting, the cook harped on about storeroom keys and untried recipes being forced upon her. Her only saving grace, in my opinion, was that I saw no evidence that she and Miss O'Brien were in cahoots.

A knock on my door jarred me out of my reverie. It was Gwen, coming to assist me with my corset.

Gwen, Anna, Mr Bates and young William had all attempted to make me feel welcome. They seemed to show me some genuine good will, and not only because of some mandate enforced upon them by Mr Carson.

Once young Gwen had helped me finish dressing, I made my way downstairs. Ignoring all the hustle and bustle, I selfishly slipped out into the side garden.

Mrs Bute's bedroom not only suffered from inadequate warmth with regards to the temperature, its homeyness was severely lacking.

There was one wardrobe, one tatterly covered rocking chair pushed against the wall at the back of the room, and a set of drawers arranged beside a small single bed. No paintings or sketches adorned the walls. There were no plates or jewellery boxes. No needlepoint or cushions. No bookshelves or books, apart from the Bible, which sat prominently on display the day I arrived. And there definitely wasn't any mirror to check my appearance.

My weak attempt to give the room a dash of high spirits was to place a vase of fresh flowers around every few days.

This morning I wondered if I should also try to add a splash of colour to Mr Carson's pantry with a small posy. He kept the room quite ordered and I wasn't sure if he would appreciate such a feminine touch or not.

Given the season, there were fewer blooms to choose from. A riot of daffodils still sprouted along the fence indifferently, however. Using one of the sharp tools on my chatelaine, I gathered up some of the long yellow flowers, placing them in my pinafore folds.

I was still looking down, contemplating how many more could be picked without consequence when I collided quite firmly with another body

"Mrs Hughes!"

The lofty man's solid weight rocked me backwards, and to save myself from falling, I clung onto his coat's lapels.

In turn, he gripped me under the arms, to hold me upright and steady.

He repeated my name, adding, "Are you hurt?"

I shook my head, even though I did feel a little winded at that moment. I told myself it was all to do with crashing into his bulk and nothing to do with his hands. Hands which were stroking along my arms, eliciting goosepimples which had nothing to do with the crisp air. Hands which were only offering comfort and support and shouldn't be disparaged with indelicate thoughts, I told myself.

"I do apologise."

"There's no need," I whispered hoarsely, "it was as much my fault."

"I was distracted," he admitted.

"And I."

Before, I had been distracted by whether or not decorating his room would impress him in some small way. Now, I was distracted for quite a different reason.

I loosened my grip on his coat and slid _my_ hands down, spreading my palms across his chest. All to steady myself, of course.

His chest didn't feel as I expected. I'd thought he'd be almost cuddly and welcoming, like sinking into an eiderdown, where one could drift off peacefully. Instead he was hard, rock solid, a great wall of unforgiving stone, and sleep was the last thing my senses craved. I frowned. I was putting quite a lot of thought into the feel of his chest.

"The edge of the house must have blocked our vision of each other," he babbled on. "I've given you quite the fright."

"And I you." His heart, after all, was sending vibrations up my arms towards my own-

I gasped then, pulling my hands away and stepped back, resolute. I was getting carried away with myself. Physical contact between staff was rare for a real reason. Though I knew of many a butler and a housekeeper who indulged in affairs, I knew of few who came out of such arrangements unscathed. Though I was far past child bearing years, it would still make for a disorganised household, at the very least.

Mr Carson was always professional and it was time I behaved thus.

"Excuse me," I said, my tone clear and strong. I turned, planning on scurrying inside to resume my duties with a level of dignity.

I had only taken a few steps towards the back door before his booming voice stopped me in my tracks.

"Mrs Hughes."

Taking a calming breath, I turned to face him again. Once I did, I flushed anew.

He was holding the flowers I'd dropped so neglectfully. The delicate stems were bent but still intact.

"Oh!" My hands wiped along my pinafore front, confirming the skirts were no longer bunched. I couldn't believe I'd forgotten the very reason I was outside first thing in the morning. It was quite disrespectful of me.

I felt my skin prickle with further heat as I stepped forward to take the flowers Mr Carson was offering in my direction. If someone should happen upon us, it would look quite like he was delivering me a bouquet for some special occasion.

"Before you go, Mrs Hughes," he said. "I need to discuss with you one very important duty Mrs Bute always performs."

My hand, which had been stretched out to accept the flowers, hovered in midair.

"I have concerns whether or not you're up to scratch in the area. You might need some guidance."


	6. Chapter 6

It was four o'clock in the afternoon when I sat down with Mrs Patmore at the small table pushed against one wall of the kitchen. Our lists and papers bunched around the vase of daffodils I'd arranged upon its centre that morning. I avoided glancing at their golden blooms; they served as a reminder of my earlier folly.

I attempted to clear my mind and stay on track when Lady Grantham joined us to go over the menus for the coming week. This was no easy task, as my presence soon became redundant. Both my employer and the cook had strong opinions on what was to be served, and my advice was relegated to current prices and availability of ingredients.

Both women too were canny when it came to falseness and therefore, I had never bothered to spend my time impressing them with extensive knowledge I did not possess.

I was then surprised by their demeanour at the conclusion of our get-together.

"You are not unwell, are you, Mrs Hughes?" Lady Grantham asked as she stood. "Only you are very quiet. I wouldn't want you to be ill for tomorrow, of all days."

I quickly assured her I was fine, manipulating my features with a smile the best I could, given the throbbing behind my temples.

Mrs Patmore was much more direct. "I'll fetch you a powder, Mrs Hughes. Mr Carson will need one himself if anything goes off plan tomorrow, so you'll have to buck up."

Instantly I paled, thinking about the effort it would take for me to act as I should tomorrow.

Then, I was sure I must have physically quaked when a baritone voice spoke behind me. "Did I hear my name being taken in vain?"

"Carson, I want you to excuse Mrs Hughes for the rest of the day," Lady Grantham immediately ordered.

"I'll be fine," I repeated, although even I could hear the wanness of my tone.

Lady Grantham, quite accustomed to being obeyed, ignored my weak protest and continued to rattle off instructions. "You are to go straight up to bed, Mrs Hughes. Mrs Patmore, might you make Mrs Hughes some soup and deliver it to her room later. Carson, you can muddle through for the rest of today and tonight, I'm sure. We wouldn't want Mrs Hughes to miss her first servants' ball with us, after all."

She turned to me again. "I must tell you, Mrs Hughes, Lord Grantham is looking forward to a new dancing partner." Then, she looked over my shoulder, to where Mr Carson must have hovered. The skin at the nape of my neck prickled. "You will allow Mrs Hughes a moment to relax tomorrow after the first official dances." Her next words, although softly delivered, left me horrified. "Or you might want to waltz her around the floor, after we've all left, to brighten her mood."

Luckily she didn't seem to notice my reaction and, certain we would all carry out her commands, she headed upstairs once more, leaving Mrs Patmore to tut about and bark at Daisy to make me tea with lots of sugar.

Mr Carson, I knew, still lurked behind me. I lowered my eyes to my feet, wondering at how they seemed to be rooted into place. They had certainly glided across the floor with much more ease earlier.

It had been just after luncheon when Mr Carson had joined me in Mrs Bute's sitting room.

Firstly, he'd run through a serious of steps, explaining to me their complications. Then, he cleared a space in the room for the practical side of his lesson. The sparsely furnished room was at last advantageous.

"It's a shame you're so short," he noted.

I bit down on my bottom lip to stop laughing at this bumbling slap in the face. I knew it was unintentional. Somehow his artlessness made me like him a little more.

"Lord Grantham is a man of considerable height," he continued on blithely, "so you will need to adjust your stance. It won't look good if you're constantly reaching."

"I should wear shoes with a higher heel?" I suggested facetiously.

He tilted his head, as if he was truly contemplating the proposal.

"No," he finally said, apparently deciding a short housekeeper was preferable to one wearing questionable footwear. "Let's practise, shall we?"

He held his hand out and bowed, giving me a more unfettered view of his shoulders than usual. He always filled out his suitcoats quite nicely, but this alternative aspect made me think about his natural sturdiness and strength. He might lift me completely off my feet if I grasped his shoulders and he merely shrugged.

"I am, luckily, of a similar stature to Lord Grantham," he commented when I hesitated.

"Only you're much broader." I had meant that comment as a teasing insult, but my breathless delivery spoiled the effect.

Determinedly I closed the gap between our bodies and placed my hand one of those shoulders. I slipped my other hand into his, wondering at how it all but disappeared.

He was correct about the difficulty faced, given his size. I would normally dance at a much more respectable distance from my partner. I inched closer.

"Let's start," he ordered, his tone now gruff, probably due to my dilly-dallying.

I did have a plan, however. One that I should see through, considering his behaviour in the garden this morning when he had speculated about my dancing skills.

"We're already one man down. Mr Bates is useless," he'd informed me tactlessly. "You can't do a Scottish jig or reel with the Earl of Grantham."

Each time I'd opened my mouth to assure him I wouldn't embarrass him in this arena, he'd interrupted, leaving me no choice but to play along with the idea I was a hopeless Scottish ignorant.

Remembering this, slowly, deliberately, I stepped off with the wrong foot and crunched down onto his toes. It was a shame he had such strong leather uppers on his shoes. He probably wouldn't even feel the pressure of my heel, I lamented. Of course, he _would_ need to polish them, so that was worth my trouble.

Happily, he jerked back and made a rather feminine squeaking noise.

"Wrong foot, Mrs Hughes!"

"Oh?" I feigned innocence the best I could. "Let me try again."

"We won't rush. We'll get there in the end. I'd much rather you took the first dance than Miss O'Brien."

He said all this so sincerely that I felt instantly contrite.

Dutifully, I returned to my starting position, one hand grasped in his and one clutching his shoulder. This time, we stepped off in unison without mishap.

At first, he quietly counted aloud as he led me around the small space. After half a minute or so, he stopped, and soon only our breaths were audible.

His breathing might have just seemed louder because we had no music to accompany us, I thought. In any case, I knew mine was affected because my front was compressed far too tightly against his broad chest.

I needed some sort of distraction from his impressive physical attributes. It would be best to switch my focus. Perhaps to my hair, I reasoned. Each time he exhaled, he stirred it so that it was tickling me. I wanted to give it a good scratch, but that would hardly be attractive or appropriate. I decided to turn my head instead. This meant, though, that I only needed to lean in the merest distance and I'd be nestled in the warmth of his chest. Perhaps it wasn't as hard as I'd first imagined in the garden…

"Mrs Hughes."

I jerked my head back. His features were stern and irritated. I'd misstepped and allowed my posture to relax.

I carefully corrected the carriage of our arms, and silently vowed to concentrate harder on keeping a strict gap between our bodies as my feet once more automatically slid across the sitting room's floorboards.

"Mrs Hughes," he repeated, this time skidding us both to a stop. "I don't think I'm that good of a teacher."

"Sorry?" I asked. He wasn't usually so self-effacing.

"You might be a fast learner, but I suspect you've feed me some untruth."

He no longer looked angry. Instead, he looked… Hurt.

"I…"

"You led me to believe you were a novice."

"I wouldn't say I've danced upon the stage," I quickly retorted, at which I noticed his face paled. "I didn't tell an untruth," I went on regardless, "I simply found it difficult to get a word in edgeways when you insisted on treating me like some second class citizen. Which, I'm certain, you'll tell me we are.

" _I_ am," I stressed the reality of the situation. "But I don't need to hear it from a fellow servant. I might be a lower class upstairs, but down here I'm everyone's equal. I've worked just as hard, if not harder, than everyone here."

I stared down at the floor, as shocked by my tirade as he probably was. I couldn't even begin to wonder from where my antagonism had emanated. All I knew is I should have held my tongue about three sentences earlier than my final one.

"I see," he finally said in a clipped tone. I daren't look up. I knew his face would be red, probably to the tips of his ears.

Again, the only sound I could hear was our breathing. This time it was laboured with annoyance.

"I am the butler, Mrs Hughes," he declared haughtily.

"Yes."

"You are the housekeeper."

"Yes."

I waited. Waited for him to point out I was merely the replacement housekeeper. That I was indeed second class and Mrs Bute was his first choice. Mrs Bute who I was sure never spoke so freely or disrespectfully.

When he finally spoke, he never said that. In fact, I wasn't sure what to make of his parting statement. "I think your dancing is up to standard, so I'll get back to work."

I looked up then. The graceful man I'd danced with only a few minutes earlier had all but disappeared. This Mr Carson's movements were rigid and tense. My fault completely.

He had opened the door to my sitting room and was stepping into the hallway when he stopped. He turned back around, held my gaze.

"Mrs Bute will be back two days after the servants' ball. You'll be free to return to London in time for Christmas."


	7. Chapter 7

I turned slowly around so I no longer had my back to Mr Carson. The noise of the kitchen faded into the background while I waited for him to make some sort of remark, whether it be about the inappropriateness of my behaviour earlier, or the inconvenience I would cause should I be ill.

I couldn't resist a quick glance across to his shoes. They were sparkling. He'd polished them since our dance lesson. I imagined his irritation at his routine being out of sorts because he'd had to make an unexpected visit to the bootroom. My lips twitched for the first time since he'd given me the news of Mrs Bute's return.

I quickly looked up into his face, to see if he'd noticed my impertinent amusement. Oddly enough, as I did, I instantly read his expression; he knew I was laughing at his shiny shoes and he too was amused.

He made a noise, something between a snort and a chuckle, prompting all the awkwardness between us to evaporate.

Considering I had been the one to create most of the awkwardness with my earlier outburst, I thought I should apologise. "I'm-" I started, but embarrassingly, I was wracked with a coughing fit.

"Can I get you something?" he asked anxiously. His hand hovered in midair. Was he thinking of patting me on back?

I shook my head. Luckily, I'd caught my breath and he'd lowered his hand to fiddle with the chain of his fob watch.

I knew I should attempt another apology. I opened my mouth to speak just as my nose tickled and I gave a graceless sneeze.

"Out of my kitchen!" Mrs Patmore shrieked, causing me to jump inelegantly as well. "I'll not have you spreading your sickness throughout my kitchen! We said we'd bring you up some soup soon, and so we will. Now-" she flicked a teatowel in my direction- "away with you!"

Avoiding everyone's scrutiny and their humour at this situation, good or ill, I quickly obeyed and left the kitchen.

As I climbed the stairs to the attics, I took the time to ponder Mrs Patmore. I had thought she was not taking any notice of me nor Mr Carson after Lady Grantham had left the kitchen. I'd thought she was quite occupied with barking orders at young Daisy. Yet something in her demeanour as she'd shooed me from the kitchen made me realise she had been keenly observing our exchange. I would need to remember Mrs Patmore was obviously adept at keeping her eye on more than one interest at a time.

I would need to ensure my facial expressions around Mr Carson remained impassive, even if I found my heart beating wildly. I would be placed in a compromising position should she misinterpret my friendship with the butler.

My relationship with him was, after all, simply friendship, despite the feminine fancies that carried me away now and then. They were just a side effect of my advancing age, I was sure.

I didn't sneeze or cough again in Mrs Bute's bedroom, but the slight tension headache I had when Lady Grantham commented on my health in the kitchen did escalate into a fully fledged migraine by the time a knock heralded the delivery of my dinner.

I called out for Daisy to enter. I'd removed my day clothes, corset, and boots, and donned a nightdress before lying down upon the bed.

As I removed the damp flannel I'd placed across my sensitive eyes, I saw it wasn't Daisy who would be waiting on me.

"Thank you, Mrs Patmore," I murmured as she fussed about, making room for the tray on one of Mrs Bute's side tables.

"You're as white as a ghost, you are."

"Thank you, Mrs Patmore," I repeated. It was rather nice of her to let me know that I looked terrible.

"I'd show you myself,"-she spun around- "but there's no mirror in here then? Not much of anything in here though, is there," she added, with a touch of glee, I suspected.

"You've never been in Mrs Bute's room?" I wondered aloud as I wriggled to sit up, leaning my back against the wall and tugging the sheet tidily across my lap.

"Only the junior staff are to come in here and dress her. That's why I brought up the tray instead of Daisy," she freely admitted. Then, she turned her attention to the wardrobe, running her finger along its edges and then checking her hand for dust."I thought I'd be a bit of a nosy parker and take a tour of the royal suite."

I raised my eyebrows at her tone. "Royal suite?

She walked over to the chest of drawers beside the bed. I didn't know how to inform her that the belongings on display there were not Mrs Bute's but mine. "Yes, I've always been too scared to come into Lady Muck's lair before now," she grumbled.

I didn't know whether to be insulted or not. "You're not scared of me?"

She turned and eyed me speculatively. Alas, I doubted I conveyed brash confidence at this exact moment: she'd already commented on my paleness, my eyes were surely red, my hair not as tightly pinned as it should be.

"I should be," she said, "I suppose, given-" She paused abruptly.

I pursed my lips, waiting for her to continue. When she continued to hesitate, I asked a direct question. "You and Mrs Bute are not friends?"

"Heavens, no. Actually, I'm not sure she has any friends. Save for Mr Carson, I suppose."

"But she is friends with Mr Carson?" I probed further.

Her answer was frustratingly vague. "I suppose."

I was to stay frustrated too, it seemed, because she then bustled out the door, claiming nothing would be fit for consumption if she should leave Daisy alone any longer.

After she had gone, I balanced the tray of food on my knees and mulled over the further hints she'd revealed about Mrs Bute's character.

A housekeeper remaining aloof from the other staff was not unusual, however, and nothing Mrs Patmore had revealed was of any great consequence. Except for one thing. Mr Carson and Mrs Bute were obviously on good terms.

For the most, Mr Carson and I were on good terms also. Only his position called for him to be on good terms with his senior staff. And it was clear he was good as his job. Therefore, I joylessly deduced that our friendship was probably nothing out of the ordinary for him.

I pushed the soup away, my tastebuds too numbed to drink any more, and burrowed down into the bed.

Sleep was elusive, however, as I continued to brood over my deep interest in Mr Carson.

I eventually came to the conclusion that this interest was borne from my desire to win the position of Downton housekeeper full time. I was a country girl at heart, and even in this coldly furnished bedroom I could imagine the potentially comfortable future as Downton's housekeeper.

London fashions changed like the wind, and the Granthams' leaning for a certain type of servant to present to the city elite could also alter. A more modern approach might be suddenly favoured. Here, I believed I was guaranteed a position as long as I had my health and diligence lasted.

I finally drifted off into a fitful sleep full of nightmares. Mr Carson loomed, informing me that London was a bustling city of millions and I could be replaced in a blink of an eye, without any great hassle. Becky appeared, clutching a doll and rocking back and forth on the concrete floor of a dinghy London workhouse. I walked from shop to shop, begging for employment. Then, I was one of many women with children working in a line at a factory, where my arm became caught in a machine...

I woke, shivering and disoriented. My minor ailment had obviously turned to a fever at one stage, meaning I'd kicked out at my covers and now my bones sharply protested at the cold I'd exposed to them.

Rolling over, I reached for my dressing gown as I lit a candle and blinked my eyes blurrily to search the recesses of the bedroom. I was still here, in Downton.

My stomach chose that moment to protest loudly in the quiet of the night. I had not consumed enough of the soup to fill me, and my throat was parched, screaming for at least a cup of tea.

I wound my watch absentmindedly. It was too early for the other servants to be up and about, save perhaps the scullery maids.

Rising, I tugged my dressing gown around me tightly and headed downstairs. My plan was to slip into the kitchen for something to eat and drink before returning to the attics in time for Gwen's arrival.

My slipper-clad feet barely made a squeak on the stairs; the heavy boots I usually wore when going about my business were left behind in Mrs Bute's bedroom.

I was surprised by my innate ability to negotiate the stairs and corridors with only a lone candle to light my way, considering the short period I'd lived within this grand house's walls.

Then, however, I wondered if I'd gotten too confident and lost my way because I shouldn't be hearing the distinct tread of boots as I was. Why would one of the scullery or kitchen maids be working in one of the rooms where the noise seemed to be emanating?

I squinted. There was a light shining further up the hallway, in the opposite direction of the kitchen.

"Hello?" I called out. Of course I hadn't taken how raspy my voice had become into account. No one would hear my weak croak.

I sighed, and set off to investigate. If one of the young scullery maids and was up to no good with one of the hallboys…

I arrived at the housekeeper's sitting room's doorway and frowned. The light was clearly coming from inside the room which I'd declared as my own three months ago.

I opened my mouth to call out again, but then thought better of it. What if it wasn't merely a maid, but a thief? Mr Carson was complacent when it came to security of the abbey. He had faith in the goodness of his fellow Yorkshiremen and only insisted on locking the doors when in London.

Even to me, it seemed highly unlikely that the house could have an intruder, but I nevertheless scurried into Mr Carson's pantry and armed myself with the first thing that seemed appropriate before heading back to the sitting room.

I heard nothing from inside the room while all this took place. Whatever the offender had been doing when I first arrived downstairs had ceased. I wasn't sure what was less frightening; silently lurking in a housekeeper's sitting room around three am wasn't exactly normal behaviour.

My hackles rose, and in my anger, I swished the door open. The room did, indeed, have an occupant. One who jumped in fright and turned to face me, red faced and guilty.

"Mrs Bute…"


	8. Chapter 8

I felt no sense of relief when I stepped onto King's Cross platform.

The train trip had been long and tedious. Although I'd carried a book and my knitting bag, I'd taken no time to be productive with either. Instead, I'd stared out at the window, watching the changing landscapes flicking by with little enthusiasm.

I gathered my bag closer as a crush of passengers departing the train pushed past, all with such purpose that I couldn't find the energy to match.

It reminded me of Mr Carson. I'd always envied how he could plough gracefully through crowds. This very morning I'd watched him stride away, without a backward glance, from the platform at York without bumping into anyone. Nothing and no one had caused his stride to falter.

I'd noticed it too when waiting for the train to depart London some months ago.

My mood at the beginning of that trip was completely different to today's. I'd felt such eagerness and bubbling anticipation to arrive at my destination, and I'd been looking forward to Mr Carson offering me a commentary of the sights along the way. So, I was disappointed when, after he'd guided me into a carriage and settled me into a seat before the timetabled departure time, he'd not taken a seat himself. Instead, he'd given me a small, almost offhand, apology and left the train.

I'd watched him from the train window, marvelling at how his impressively built body refused to be swallowed up by the crowd. My contemplation of his appearance only wavered when a stranger posing a question distracted me.

"I say, is this seat taken?" he'd asked, forcing me to turn towards him and cease my scrutiny of the scene on the platform.

He hovered uncertainly in the aisle, gesturing towards the vacant seat beside me. I glanced around the carriage, noting how quickly it had filled whilst I'd been preoccupied with the scene on the platform. Indeed two of the only seats vacant were the one next to me and the one opposite.

He was a short stout man with thinning hair. He wore a plaid suit with a bow tie and I caught the waft of onions and some spice I couldn't quite place on his clothes.

"Ma'am?" he prompted.

A whistle, however, delayed any answer. It screeched over the hubbub of the passengers, warning us of the train's imminent departure. Greedily, I took advantage of this interruption and again looked out the window, just in time to see Mr Carson following Mr Bates along the platform.

I stretched my neck, attempting to follow the butler and valet's path, but to no avail. They were well and truly out of sight when another whistle blasted and our carriage surged. And even though the train only crept along the tracks for a few inches before stopping again, I took it as a sign it would soon be on its way.

"Please," I murmured with a nod of consent that the gentleman was welcome to sit beside me should he desire. I should resign myself to the idea that none of my fellow staff would be occupying it.

"Jos Tufton," the man said as an introduction, flopping awkwardly into the seat after he'd stowed his suitcase into a compartment above us. "But I'm sure we're not the type to stand on ceremony, so you can just call me Jos."

"Elsie," I answered, finding he'd left me with little choice but to mirror his familiarity even though the christian name did sound odd, even to me, spoken aloud after so many years of hearing myself referred to as Mrs Hughes.

After the obligatory discussion on the weather, Jos looked agitatedly out the window, lamenting the fact the train would not leave on time.

I too was fidgeting in my seat by this time, willing the train to start its journey. I had never visited Yorkshire, but I imagined it to be preferable to London, where once you strayed a little from Mayfair, the streets became crowded and grimy. I wanted London's many shades of grey to be replaced by Yorkshire greens.

Mr Tufton thought perhaps the railway line was to blame for the delay in our departure.

"I'm afraid I'm no expert on the subject," I admitted.

I told him how I'd arrived in the English capital five years beforehand via the West Coast and had never travelled this route previously.

"I have a friend who is quite an admirer of the Great Northern Railway, however," I said, imagining how Mr Carson would instantly defend the company should he have stayed within this carriage.

This statement only prompted Mr Tufton to tick off a list of complaints, including the fact that we had remained stationary for a significantly lengthy period since the whistle had last blasted.

Realising he was quite correct, I checked the platform for activity. I spied a couple of porters deep in conversation with three uniformed men, but no passengers. I assumed everyone to be aboard and in their selected seats.

"The seats are very comfortable, at least," I said, endeavouring to divert myself from Mr Carson's abandonment by babbling.

"Wonder if this fellow has anything to do with it?"

I followed Mr Tufton's gaze and saw a familiar tall figure striding alongside a porter.

"He looks like some copper."

Although I knew this to be completely untrue, I could understand Mr Tufton's thinking. Mr Carson had an air of authority that few could manage even in uniform.

My eyes followed his path until I knew he had entered the carriage from a door behind me. As improbable as it seemed, I was sure I could hear his tread on the wooden boards of the aisle growing louder as he drew nearer to my seat. I daren't turn.

I stared straight ahead, holding my breath. Then, his long long legs came into sight.

In contrast to my other male companion's collapse into the chair, somehow Mr Carson managed to lower himself into the seat opposite and position those legs without jostling or unbalancing mine. Still, I twisted in my seat slightly, automatically accommodating his bulk. If I relaxed I thought our knees might brush lightly together. I squeezed my legs together tighter and shivered a little at the mere idea.

Beside me, Jos Tufton was prattling on. Mr Carson made some comments in return. I was too busy woolgathering to hear any of the conversation until the subject of names was revisited.

"Forgive me..." Our new companion had paused, waiting for Mr Carson to fill in the blank with his name.

I too waited, on edge as to how he should want to be addressed on the trip.

"Charlie."

 _Charlie._ Not Carson or Mr Carson. Not even Charles. But Charlie. I rolled the name around in my mind, wondering how it would sound should it roll from my tongue. I imagined how it would sound should I exhale it against his lips, whisper it into the pulse point of his neck.

I blinked. Both men were staring at me. I realised Jos Tufton was introducing me as if we were old friends. I searched Mr Carson's features, hoping he was finding humour in the situation. Unfortunately, he simply looked quite put out. Surely he didn't think I had been anything other than polite since I'd boarded the train.

"Oh! You're together!" Jos Tufton pushed in, eliciting from me a small groan of frustration.

Luckily, neither man seemed to hear me. Mr Tufton was blithely continuing with his conversation, and Mr Carson was suddenly quite fascinated with the rim of his shoes.

"How silly of me. This is why you were so anxious a moment ago, Elsie. I suppose you thought you'd been abandoned."

For one faint moment I thought he was going to suggest Mr Carson and I were married.

Mr Carson's lips twisted in irritation before he spoke. "Yes, I am acquainted with…"

I stared at his mouth, waiting for it to relax and stretch into the loose vowels of my name. I was almost certain he would not say my christian name boisterously like Jos Tufton managed to do each time. Instead he would say it in hushed tones. It would be our private secret. It was highly unlikely that we'd ever meet up with Mr Tufton again. This could be one intimacy we could share without censure.

But Mr Tufton had moved smoothly to another subject, and the moment was gone. At the time I didn't know it, but I would have to wait until much later to hear that deep baritone say my name. It would be a bittersweet moment.

I blinked back tears, abruptly aware I was no longer on the train bound for Yorkshire.

"Mrs Hughes. Elsie Hughes?"

I gave myself a shake and turned towards the porter seeking my attention. I confirmed my identity and thanked him as he set a waist-height crate at my feet.

Next, I searched around for the man Mrs Tomkinson was sending to meet me. She had made arrangements for the crate to be collected. I would travel by bus to Grantham House whilst my precious bounty would be delivered to that residence in an automobile, no less.

I touched the rough edges of the wood which was keeping the smooth edges of wood safe. My heart jolted with joy at its existence.

It was my one compensation for the shock I'd received two night's ago. When I'd burst into Mrs Bute's sitting room, armed with a poker, ready to confront the interloper who'd chosen to improperly inhabit it.

"Mrs Bute…" The room's occupant had muttered the name as he'd turned.

The intruder was not unknown to me. In fact, his features were almost as familiar to me as my own. And yet, it seemed, he could not recognise me from across the room.

He'd called me by the other woman's name. Tears had instantly stung my eyes to think that Mr Carson had mistakenly addressed me as Mrs Bute.


	9. Chapter 9

I'd arrived back in London on Christmas eve, leaving little time to prepare anything extravagant for the next day. In the end, Mrs Tomkinson, Betsy, and myself celebrated Christmas with an early luncheon after church. By noon, I'd waved both of them off, refusing their generous invitations (Mrs Tomkinson's, albeit, made with some reluctance) for me to join them as they visited their respective relatives.

I knew they both assumed I had no family left. I could see the sympathy on their faces. They walked on eggshells when it came to sharing too much about the cousin in Blackheath or the brother in Pentonville.

I said nothing of the sister in Lytham St Annes.

Once alone, I resisted the idea of wandering from room to room, hoping the quiet would heal my pining for the chaotic busyness of the bigger house. Keeping busy here was a much better alternative.

I needed to package up the money I'd managed to save the last few months in Downton and send it off to Becky's home. There was also a pile of unopened letters which had been delivered to me in my absence I needed to tackle.

With this idea firmly decided upon, I brewed a fresh pot of tea, and headed for my sitting room. The familiarity of my surroundings and routine would serve as a balm for my disquiet.

Still, in the sitting room's doorway I paused and glanced around, striving to feel some sort of emotion for the small room where I'd spent so much time. Sadly, I couldn't evoke any. In fact I realised the only thing that held sentimental appeal to me at all was the small table now pushed up against the far wall.

I bustled over to that table and settled the tea tray onto it. (Only once I'd carefully spread an extra crocheted lace doily across its centre. I should not want to mark the wood with the heat.)

Absentmindedly, my fingers skirted the edge of the doily to stroke the table's delicate lacquered finish. Mr Carson's fingers had skimmed along the same path the day before yesterday.

The day before yesterday he'd also called me Mrs Bute when I'd happened to come upon him in her sitting room.

After the initial prickle of tears, brought about by my recent illness, I'm sure, I'd straightened my backbone. My temper had risen at the sheer possibility that he might have mistaken me for the other woman.

At the time, I did have the fleeting thought that he might be accustomed to skulking around downstairs in the early hours of the morning for secret rendezvouses with Mrs Bute, but quickly dismissed it. I could not imagine Mr Carson ever being so sly.

But just as surely, I couldn't ignore the slur of him calling me the incorrect name. "Is there something I can help you with Mr Carson? I'm Mrs Hughes," I sniped, but alas, the effect I was going for was quite lost because of the raspiness of my voice. I still hadn't gotten to that cup of tea I'd come downstairs to fetch, of course.

Apparently the testy tone I was striving for wasn't completely lost, because Mr Carson immediately straightened to his full height defensively. "I hardly think it likely I'd forget this fact," he assured me.

His attitude only made me more irritated. Why should he be so curiously agitated? I wasn't the one calling him Mr Spratt!

I peered at his pallor again. Perhaps his flush wasn't caused by shame. Was my illness contagious, and he was merely confused by malady?

Before I could ask, he eerily repeated my thoughts with his own question: "You're unwell and confused?" He stepped closer and his hand hovered in mid air for what seemed like forever until he shaped it into a fist which he lowered harmlessly to his side.

My anger dissipated, to be replaced by disappointment. I had wanted him to touch my forehead; for his fingers to cool the warmth swirling throughout my body. "Am I mad with fever?" I wondered aloud.

He made some sort of gruff noise and shuffled closer again. I was forced to tilt my head backwards should I wish to continue to look upon his face. Though I was sure everything was appropriately demure, I tugged the lapels of my nightgown together, just to be certain.

"Or perhaps I might be sleepwalking and you're merely a figment of my imagination," I went on blithely. "You are awake, far too early even for a servant, in my sitting room, and acting as if I should not be insulted when you address me by another name."

His mouth stretched into a smile, and then he emitted a small chuckle. I remembered how I was eager to see him laugh only a few short months ago, and now here I'd gotten my wish. I swallowed, this time not to salve my sore throat, but to slow down the emotional pull his happiness provoked.

"I'll agree with being an apparition if it should save me from a poke in the eye with that."

He pointed to the fire iron which languished in my possession.

"I thought you might be some mischief maker. You should be asleep," I pointed out.

"As should you." His voice was gentle.

I bit down on my lip, waiting for some sort of explanation, but still it was not forthcoming. It was then that I realised the room was filled with the sharp scent of paint. Later, I couldn't even blame my congested nasal passages for not noticing this earlier. The truth was I was simply distracted by Mr Carson.

I twisted my head in an endeavour to see around his solid bulk.

"There is little point in my attempting to hide anything from you," he griped before stepping to one side.

Behind him was the same table William had found for me in the scullery. Instead of being covered by a cloth, it now stood proudly on display. Instead of the splintered and bare timber I remembered, it was now sleek and shimmering.

"It was to be a surprise," he said quietly. "A Christmas gift."

My only response was a small hum of pleasure. He'd made me speechless really.

Then, my face heated even further when he went on to explain: "And as for the use of Mrs Bute's name? I supposed you were young William. He has been my partner in this little venture. I was about to relay to him that I'd heard from the housekeeper and that she was returning, hence my hurry to finish the final layer of polish without him."

He turned and ran his fingers along the now-perfect wood. "We needed to apply the polish after you'd retired. We tried to ensure the smell was not detectable when you came into the room of a morning. One of us would rise early to check the table was fully dry and cover it again. Unfortunately there have been a few damp and dreary days that set us back."

I stared at his hands, stroking the tabletop to test the paint's tackiness. I imagined him here, at night, using his hands gently but with such firm authority.

Flustered with my silly wandering thoughts, I discarded the poker near the fireplace and approached the newly restored piece of furniture.

"But the table belongs here," I murmured when I felt the heat of Mr Carson's body. He'd moved to stand beside me. His closeness was not stifling. This wasn't a symptom of my illness. I realised I had become accustomed to him standing near. He touted routine frequently, and I could see some worth in this one. Being by his side had become a great comfort to me.

"I can't possibly take this back to London," I protested weakly.

"I know Mrs Bute well. She will not require or want this table in the room upon her return."

"How could she not?"

I ran my hands along the same trail his had taken a few minutes ago. He was correct; it was quite dry. I spread my fingers wide and slid my palm across the surface. I held to the belief that I could hear not only Mr Carson's breathing, but his heart beating. What if I should turn and place my hand upon his chest in the same configuration as it was now resting upon the table? Would I be able to _feel_ his heart beating? Would I learn its rhythm was matching my racing one's?

Young William was to save me from making that career-ending move.

"Mrs Hughes!" he cried from the doorway.

We all jumped and after a brief explanation of just how I'd ruined the surprise, Mr Carson ordered the footman away to fetch me that long-forgotten pot of tea.

Now, on Christmas Day, in London, I still felt the gifts I'd bestowed upon the two gentlemen on my departure from Downton were wildly underwhelming compared to the effort they'd put into mine.

Quickly, before I could think better of it, I retreated to my desk and found a fresh sheet of writing paper and a fountain pen to scribe another thank-you letter.

 _Dear Mr Carson_ , I began. _Firstly, let me send you tidings for Christmas. I hope everything went smoothly for…_ I dipped my pen in the ink well and thought for a long moment before continuing. ... _the family._ There was no point in writing 'you and the family'. Mr Carson would only relax and enjoy the day once he knew the family to be satisfied and amused.

 _I wanted to write and assure you that your gift made it to London safely. Without a scratch, I can thankfully convey. Your record with Northern Railway remains unblemished!_

My pen remained poised, undecided on how much I should prattle on. Keeping the tone light was probably always a good idea.

 _My trip was largely uneventful_. _There was no Mr Tufton to highlight to me the lack of culinary skills by all and sundry._

I did not mention any of the points of interest he'd called to my attention previously. It would not help to mention that I'd struggled with concentrating on anything, even the view, on my return train trip.

 _I hope Mrs Bute is settling back into the routine of the house again._

Not a lie, exactly. I had thought perhaps if she remembered how stressful the position was, she might decide a life of living on the goodwill of her sister's family preferable.

I paused again, dipping the pen in the ink instead of resting it on the paper and causing a blot.

I could do the English thing and talk about the weather. Or I could ask after the rest of the staff. Or give him some small tip that he could pass on to Mrs Bute.

I snorted aloud at that idea. I'm sure Mrs Bute would be much appreciative-

As I was mid-thought, the front door bell rang.

"Who on Earth…" It was Christmas Day. Anyone doing business with the house knew to come to the back door. Only the family or their peers would knock on the front door, and as they were all in Yorkshire… Obviously there would be someone come to the incorrect house, or someone lost and asking for directions.

With this idea firmly established, my thoughts returned to Mrs Bute as I sailed towards the front door and swept it open.

I could at least say any thoughts of Mrs Bute disappeared completely when I discovered the identity of my unexpected visitor.


	10. Chapter 10

On the last day of the year I was still suffering from dampened spirits caused, I thought, by my return to London.

Mrs Tomkinson and Betsy were working minimum hours until the Season began in earnest, so I blamed the emptiness of the house for putting me in a sombre mood. My own company throughout the day, it seemed, was proving to be insufficiently meaningful.

Here, there was no fussing about keys or rosters, no constant interruptions as I completed my administrative tasks, no butler distracting me endlessly as he looked over my shoulder.

In fact, many times I found myself whirling around, thinking another servant was in the room. Usually it turned out to be simply my own reflection. I would catch a glimpse out of the corner of my eye and be startled. Along with the ones in the upstairs rooms, there were mirrors adorning a wall in my downstairs sitting room, my attic bedroom, and the servants' bathroom. Perhaps Mrs Bute's idea of going without mirrors held some merit after all.

I stared at my likeness in the sitting room mirror now, tucking any loose tendrils of hair into the fringes of my hat. A light blue flower made from ribbon cheered up the dour grey headpiece, but I ignored its frivolity and obstinately focused instead on my undeniable plainness.

I had been been in service almost my entire adult life and had aged as such. I'd no children to cheer me up over the years, nor a husband to keep a spring in my step.

I'd actually resigned myself to that last part a long time back, but now I had the chance to alter my future absolutely if I accepted my Christmas Day visitor's proposal.

I had been completely tongue tied when I'd opened the door to him. He told me he'd written to say he was visiting. I guessed then, and discovered for certain later, that his letter was one in the pile waiting for me at my desk.

"Peter's joined the army. He's at a training camp near Shepherd's Bush. I travelled to London to visit with him for Christmas."

After my initial shock at learning my old beau would want to seek me out for a visit on Christmas Day of all days, politeness left me with little choice but to invite him to join me for the afternoon.

Joe offered to pay for a meal at a restaurant or pub, but the idea of making others wait on us for Christmas didn't sit well with me. So, trying to block out the yearning for Mrs Patmore's planned menu for those staying at Downton (it included roast pheasant, goose and a glazed ham), I concentrated on pulling together something edible for a guest.

"I can offer some bread sauce. The stove will keep us warm," I said, attempting to add a festive note to my tone, "and it we'll really be able to talk."

After eating, sipping on sherry Mr Carson had left behind between softly singing carols, Joe had proposed marriage.

 _Marriage._ If I should accept his hand, I would no longer be a spinster housekeeper. My title would no longer be one merely borne from respect.

There were many advantages to such a situation.

I would need to work still, of course, but it would be a position less ruled by an aristocratic family and more by the ways of the land.

I would not need to ever fear the family casting me out. Joe made it quite clear that there would be money enough even if he should fall ill. He'd done his sums and both I and Becky would be provided for adequately should the unthinkable happen.

"You've put a lot of thought into this," I noted as I served us up a half a meat pie each later that evening.

At Downton Mrs Patmore was serving up a yule log, plum pudding and brandy butter. I'd urged her to consider fruit mince pies some months ago. When leaving Yorkshire she'd handed me a box containing four. "Give one to Mrs Tomkinson so she knows how one should taste," she'd encouraged slyly.

I forgave her as I had been just as sly really. After all, the sweet pastries were Mr Carson's favourites, not mine.

As I spooned warm custard over the treat, I realised I had no idea whether or not Joe would like them. And therein was the problem. I knew nothing of the man Joe had become. All I had were my memories, and some of them were sure to be unreliable.

"I've thought of little else over the past few months, Elsie. I want to make this as tempting as I possibly can," he said with an unexpected warmth.

It _was_ tempting. But to make vows before God and-

An earsplitting sound filled my sitting room, stopping my train of thought. I swung around and stepped towards my desk. Before I could take any further action, the noise abated by itself. This had happened several times in the last week. Ever since the 27th day of December.

One of the requirements of my position was to keep an inventory of everything we used and bought at the London house. At Downton, where the family spent the majority of their days, my employers could easily see if household accounts were balancing with usage. Here, we were out of sight, and it was up to me to prove to them that the house needed that bottle of paraffin or box of soap flakes like I claimed, and the servants weren't selling wares for a tidy profit.

As such, I was busy jotting down all the new purchases Mrs Tomkinson had made whilst I'd been at Downtown when I was to be interrupted by another visitor, this one using the back door bell.

It wasn't Bert with the mail, nor any of the other regular suppliers who came to the house.

"Mr Bromidge," the caller announced his name as he doffed a beret which had been merrily squatting on his very round head.

I was quite at a loss. Mr Bromidge had a look of tradesman about him, but I was unaware of his business with the house.

"Mrs Hughes, I take it then?" he asked in a roundabout way before I could follow up on his identity further. "I've got strict instructions to place one in your sitting room, but you can choose where the other goes. Usually I put one up and one down."

I blinked, uncomprehending. "Sorry?"

"I'm sure that's what we did in Yorkshire." He flipped over a ledger he'd been balancing beneath his arm and referred to his set of tidily handwritten notes. "Yes, that's right. The hallway of the great house, and Mr Carson's pantry."

There was one familiar name, at least. I didn't immediately become any the wiser upon hearing it, however. "I'm sorry, Mr Bromidge, you'll have to start from the beginning."

Mr Bromidge actually laughed aloud at this comment, before replying with an unexpected wink: "Never a truer word has been said, Mrs Hughes. Telephones, you see, they're just the beginning."

Several hours later I sat once again alone in my sitting room, eyeing the new contraption that took up far too much space on my desk. Mr Bromidge had tested it, and assured me it was working.

It definitely rang, I knew that now for certain. I had yet to speak into it, however. Each time I got too close it would fall silent.

Mr Bromidge had explained to me this was the operator calling more than one house at a time. Eventually, when upgrades were made, the rings would be distinct and I'd only need to pick up when it was an agreed amount of chimes which were allocated to this residence's telephone. At the moment though, the operator spoke to whomever answered, searching for the correct recipient. Most expecting a call sat by the phone waiting, he told me.

Oddly, as Mr Bromidge had worked, he'd also quizzed me about Gwen.

Perhaps I should initiate my first telephone communication and contact Mr Carson. He might have some more knowledge about this Bromidge's deep interest in the young maid. Given Gwen's intelligence, and usual sensible nature, I didn't want her to ruin what would surely be a promising career by getting entangled with some older man.

I hesitated only because I needed to sort out my own entanglement first.

I had, for my entire life, been the most sensible of women. In this case, the sensible thing for me to do was accept Joe as quickly as possible so that we could both return to the farm.

I wished I had someone with whom I could talk about it. I saw a brief image of Mrs Patmore's sympathetic face the day I left Downton. I had wondered then if we could become friends in time. I knew I could never say this about her counterpart, however.

Mrs Tomkinson had been harpy about the situation from the start, claiming I was neglecting my duties.

The truth was, however, after the enormity of Downton, organising an empty London house took little effort.

I had rushed through the bulk of the jobs I'd deferred so that I could travel to Yorkshire within the first few days of returning to the city. After that, other than a general 'spring' clean, all I had to do was arrange for temporary staff to work during the Season and juggle their, and the Downton staff who would be coming to London, rosters to fit in with the dates Mr Carson had given me for the planned family visits.

Besides, Lady Grantham had made it clear I could take some time off once I returned to London, considering I had barely a tea break when in Yorkshire, save the few hours I was ill. Usually I would have ignored such an order and kept to one half day each week, as was the normal arrangement for staff. Joe's arrival forced me to have a change of heart.

I thought it prudent to get to know him a little better in an impartial setting before I made any decision. .We'd dined out twice, picnicked once and, daringly, watched a motion picture (David Copperfield!) together. And tonight we intended to join the crowd ringing in the year along with Big Ben's bells.

And I was going to be late if I dilly-dallied any further, I thought, heading for the back door. Dinner had already been served, and I thought I might be able to slip out unnoticed. Alas, I had no such luck.

"Off to see Prince Charming again? Familiarity isn't leading to contempt, then?"

"Thank you, Mrs Tomkinson," I said, keeping my voice as steady as possible despite the fact her tone was grating upon my nerves.

"So much for your ambitions to be housekeeper at the Abbey. I'm sure Mrs Bute would never carry on so. Mr Carson agrees," she added smoothly.

I froze. Surely she was simply winding me up. She couldn't have spoken with Mr Carson since Christmas.

Betsy, the dear, saved me from confronting Mrs Tomkinson regarding her duplicity. The young girl prattled on about Big Ben and the bell until I finally bid them both goodbye and headed out into the early evening.

Joe was waiting for me at the first corner. He wasn't too comfortable in Mayfair, he'd told me more than once, and who was I to blame him. Our clothes were mere rags compared to the residents of Mayfair's finery.

We walked along with the crowd towards the famous landmark, I realised I would need to give him my answer tonight. He had insisted he wasn't in a rush but I couldn't in all conscience keep him waiting much longer. His time in London would need to come to an end. A farm could not be ignored; his cousin's generosity in the caretaking arena could not continue forever.

It was obvious Joe loved the farm and wouldn't dream of living elsewhere. He was most effusive when speaking on the subject of his rural patch of land.

I kept up my side of the conversation until we strolled past Buckingham Palace. The setting reminded me far too much of a certain monarchist butler. I managed to use the noise and the press of the crowd as my excuse for my sudden reticence.

Soon, the clock struck twelve.

"Happy New Year, Elsie."

"Happy New Year, Joe," I said, carefully keeping a distance between us. Many of our fellow revellers were publicly kissing but I certainly wasn't ready for such a step.

Then, along with the new year, it dawned on me that Joe had not once shown any sign of ardent affection towards me since our reunion. He hadn't taken advantage of the jostling crowd, or the darkness of the theatre, or the uneven ground of the park. He had never reached out to hold my hand or grip my elbow. He'd not leaned in close or snatched a quick kiss when no one was looking.

I turned to stare at his profile. He was not unattractive. His beard was new, as was the redness of his face, but it was the same nose I'd bumped, the same lips I'd stolen a taste from, when I was a wee lass all those years ago.

As the off-key lyrics of Auld Lang Syne began to sweep across the crowd, I remembered that Joe had been married and known a woman, had a child. How could I explain to him that he had been the last and only man I'd kissed? That our youthful fumbling pecks was the limit of my experience?

By the time we turned around and began to walk back to the house, I had worked myself up into quite the state. I could never broach the subject directly. "You and Ivy… You had a good marriage?"

"You must think I'm wicked. That way. To be asking for your hand within such a short time frame. But it's not what you think. In fact, it's just the opposite."

I raised my eyebrows. I wasn't sure how Joe assumed what I was thinking when I was yet to determine it myself.

"I won't be comparing you with Ivy, Elsie. You'll have to forgive me, but I don't think I could ever feel like I did for another woman like I did my Ivy."

I flushed and turned to make the pot of coffee I'd offered to keep him awake for his walk back to his boarding house. Embarrassingly, I rattled the cup and saucer as I placed it upon the tray.

"I want you to know I'm not looking to replace her," he confirmed as we sat to drink the beverage. "I'd like you to be my wife for other reasons."

Sweating over a boiling copper after sloshing through fields of muck immediately came to mind.

"No, Elsie, I don't need a drudge," he insisted when my imaginings must have shown in my expression.

"But if it's alright with you, Elsie, I'd just rather let that part of marriage be. There's two good sized bedrooms in the farm house which means you'll have one of your own."

My face must have been bright red. His reasoning was not unexpected, though, considering my lack of looks. My body was no longer plump and full of curves that a man might adore. My skin now sagged and my hair didn't curl. I was no prize.

"I didn't think you'd mind, seeing as you've reached this age without such distraction."

I pursed my lips. Obviously Joe hadn't had much contact with those in service over the years. It was quite often difficult to keep up with who was bedding whom in some houses. Mr Carson ran a tight ship, however, and insisted no such nonsense would go on, but Joe couldn't know this.

"I'd like company, you see," he said.

I remained mute, my rebellious thoughts returning to Charlie Carson and his stern features, and how much I enjoyed his company.

"It's quiet on the farm," he went on. "This could work for us both. You can't be a housekeeper forever. "

I gave him a sad tender smile. "No, maybe I can't be a housekeeper forever." I leaned closer and pressed a small kiss to Joe's cheek. "I don't know why… But... The truth is, I _want_ to be a housekeeper forever."

After he left, in the early hours of the morning, I cleaned up the cups and returned to my sitting room. I stoked the fire to warm me and sat by the table Mr Carson had gifted me and never felt more alone since my parents' deaths.

I must have dozed in the chair because the next thing I knew I was being woken by the sound of dishes and bowls clattering in the kitchen.

In a sleep deprived fog, I rose, planning on visiting the bathroom to spruce myself up at least a bit before facing Mrs Tomkinson. As I walked past my desk, however, I saw that the instructions Mr Bromidge had left me on how to telephone Downton were no longer in my top drawer. Instead, they were spread out and tucked beneath the base of the instrument.

Before I could think any more about it, I flattened them out further and read through them again.

Next, I followed them carefully.

The whole thing was a fairly long process. There seemed to be a lot of rigmarole necessary to talk to anyone; it was a lot less simple than Mr Bromidge claimed. Finally, however, there was a slightly different tone to the buzzing in my ear, and then the operator told me my call was connecting. I jumped a little when someone on the other end was saying hello and demanding to know who was calling.

It wasn't the deep masculine voice I was expecting. Instead, it was an accent similar to mine in many ways but I could discern the distinct upper class sound as she spoke, even with those few words. This was no farm girl from Argyll.

"Hello, Mrs Bute," I greeted the other woman. "It's Mrs Hughes from London calling."

I thought I should ask about the weather or her health, or even perhaps offer condolences for her sister, but instead I immediately asked, "Is Mr Carson available, by any chance?"

Her answer came as a shock.

Apparently I couldn't speak to Mr Carson on the telephone because he wasn't in Yorkshire. He had travelled to London, and he had arrived safely. She knew this because he had telephoned to inform her of his arrival last night just before midnight.

He had also told her he wasn't disturbing me by using the telephone because I was not here.

No, he'd instead informed Mrs Bute that I was out - _walking out_ \- with a man.


	11. Chapter 11

Mrs Bute didn't seem the least heartbroken when I quickly bid her farewell and disconnected our call.

The clock on my desk said it was almost seven; quite late in the scheme of things. Usually the servants ate their breakfast around six, so there was every possibility I had missed that morning meal. I could only imagine the jumping to conclusions this would have created.

I turned towards the mirror and screwed up my face at the image looking back at me. Dark shadows bruised my eyes, age lines distinctly gathered around my mouth and neck, highlighting my lack of sleep.

I'd removed my hat the night before, but my hair had not been plaited before I'd dozed in the chair. I patted furiously at my out of control curls, but each time I flattened one against my head, another sprung up defiantly to take its place.

The rattle just outside my sitting room made me drop my hands and spin away from my reflection. My door inched open and a petite blonde tentatively peeked around it.

"Oh, you're awake, Mrs Hughes," she said, relaxing visibly and bustling in to place a tray of tea and soda bread upon my desk.

She poured me a drink, talking a mile a minute to relay how Lady Mary had insisted on an impromptu visit to London to celebrate New Year's Eve. I couldn't help but wonder which male acquaintance Lady Mary was so keen on this week that she needed to take an unplanned trip to the city. However, the distinctly familiar rumble of a male voice coming from the kitchen interrupted my musing.

"Mr Carson joined you then?" I asked coolly, avoiding any speculative glance that might come my way by looking down to spread butter across a piece of the bread.

"He insisted on accompanying us."

I doubted Mrs Bute would convey the transcript of our telephone conversation to young Anna any time soon so I couldn't see the need to mention the other woman and my prior knowledge of Mr Carson's presence.

"Quite perturbed both her ladyship and Lord Grantham," Anna continued while I still contemplated my subterfuge. "But Mr Carson said he couldn't let us travel to London alone in these worrying times."

"I suppose he has a point," I murmured. There was some evidence of unrest in the streets last night, especially in the conversations one overheard. People were either scared or angry, and neither emotion made for a settled world.

"I didn't really see the point," Anna said, contradicting my thoughts. "Especially seeing as when we got here, he allowed Lady Mary to go out to a club alone."

I buried my nose in my teacup, pondering the implication that Mr Carson had used Lady Mary's trip as a cover, and that he had actually checking up on me and my unruly behaviour.

"He's been in quite the mood too, since we arrived." Anna leaned forward, her voice dropping to almost a whisper.

I mirrored her posture, eager to hear the details of my friend's temper before I faced him. It might be a good indication as to how much Mrs Tomkinson had revealed about my comings and goings, after all.

"I will admit to retiring to my bedroom as soon as Lady Mary left for her party last night. I had no wish to witness Mr Carson and Mrs Tomkinson exchanging sharp words."

I sat back, dismayed. "He had an argument with Mrs Tomkinson?"

"Quite a vocal one, Mrs Hughes. I could hear their raised voices as I scurried up the stairs."

"Well, I never," I exhaled. Strictly speaking, the cook's position was one I didn't govern. Nevertheless, I was often called upon to act in a liaison role by the family where Mrs Tomkinson and her conduct was concerned. I had certainly never thought Mr Carson would have any type of conversation, disciplinary or otherwise, with the cook without me present. And by Anna's account, things had turned sour without me here to keep at least one of them calm.

"I'm sure you'll soon sort it out now you're home."

Anna's word choice drove me to swallow the rest of my tea in one gulp. I needed to concentrate on the business of directing the staff and ignore any misgivings I had when the word 'home' was flung around carelessly. Anna had not intended the term in its literal form, I supposed.

"Mrs Tomkinson doesn't exactly rely on my counsel," I admitted in a dry tone as I stood. It was highly likely that Mrs Tomkinson would land me in a precarious position with Mr Carson. Agitated, I touched my unkempt hair again. "I should find a way to freshen up before facing those two."

At the very least I should change from my baby blue blouse and too-tight grey skirt into the sombre black housekeeper's pinafore before Mr Carson noted the frivolity of last night's outfit.

"That colour suits you, Mrs Hughes. You look very dressed up and pretty."

I snorted when Anna's unrehearsed remark made me immediately think of Joe's offer of a chaste marriage. I needn't have bothered dressing up, nor must he have found me particularly pretty, for our outing.

"My time for a little fancy and a lot of folly, I'm afraid," I said with a sigh. My clothes were crumpled, but I did take heart that I didn't seem to be emitting an offensive odour from my time dozing in the chair.

I was looking down to adjust the brooch holding my collar in place when Anna surprised me with an emotive declaration: "I'll miss you, Mrs Hughes."

I swallowed, touched. There was something about Anna that brought out my protective streak, and I was glad the affection I felt for the child was not one-sided. However, before I had the chance to correct her incorrect assumption regarding my imminent departure, someone clearing his throat interrupted us.

We swung around. The only male servant in the house stood in the doorway. Neither of us had apparently heard him knock or open my sitting room's door.

Before I could mutter any type of greeting, Anna stole our attention, rattling the cups and plates as she stacked the tea tray. She then gathered up the tray and bolted towards the kitchen with undue haste. The young girl was not up to braving Mr Carson's wrath, it would seem.

Not that the butler looked as irritated as I imagined he would, considering my absence from the house the night before and the apparently heated words he'd exchanged with Mrs Tomkinson. Contrarily, this annoyed me more than if he'd had entered my room full of bluster. Perhaps I wanted him to be heartbroken by the prospect of my resignation.

"May I?" He gestured towards the spare chair that was placed opposite my desk.

"Of course."

I moved behind my desk and lowered myself into that chair. Keeping the desk firmly between us was much preferable to sitting side by side by the low table where sentimentality combined with lack of sleep would not assist in keeping my wits about me.

He handed me a sheet of paper. Upon it was a list of dates and addresses, all in his sloping handwriting that took me little effort to decipher these days. It was the location of the addresses that sobered me instantly.

"You are unwell?" I attempted to keep the panic from my tone.

"Of course not!"

I relaxed in relief. In contrast his carriage straightened. "I've not missed a day of work in my life through sickness like-"

He paused abruptly and I wondered if he was about to insinuate something about the malady that kept me out of action in Yorkshire. To avoid his gaze, I read the list of doctor and hospital appointments once more. The first was only next week.

"One of the family…"

"Mrs Patmore."

I raised an eyebrow.

"It seems her irrational outbursts have been exacerbated by her deteriorating eyesight." He puffed out his chest further. "The Crawleys continue to be the most generous employers; they've arranged for an operation. I'm afraid Mrs Tomkinson is quite put out though."

I bit my bottom lip and wished I had another cup of tea so that I could gulp down some scalding liquid as a tonic. My vanity knew no bounds. Mr Carson and Mrs Tomkinson's raised voices had nothing to do with me. I eventually composed myself and prompted him to elaborate.

"She seemed to think she should travel to Yorkshire to take over Mrs Patmore's position temporarily. I have, however, already arranged for Mrs Bird to do just that. Mrs Tomkinson's case that you went to Downton when Mrs Bute went away to Scotland holds no water. It was a completely different scenario," he stressed.

I remained mute. For once in my life, I was contemplating siding with Mrs Tomkinson. This situation and the one I'd found myself in before Christmas _were_ very similar.

Mr Carson's hands resting on his knees clenched into fists. "I'd be grateful if you had a word with her."

"I'm the last person Mrs Tomkinson would listen to," I scoffed.

"Fiddlesticks. As always, you sell yourself short." His voice was like warm honey on a sore throat, smooth and sweet, and I felt my face flush in response.

He stood then, and turned to go. Only he paused in the doorway and turned back, his attention centred upon a spot on the wall behind me.

"I'll need a date."

I shook my head. Usually I thought he and I understood each other without much effort when it came to work affairs. In this case, however, I had not one clue what he was meaning.

"You gave me the dates," I reminded him, flicking my hand towards the sheet of paper lying on my desk. There was one other list of dates he'd given me. That was before I'd left Downton. I would hardly forget, considering. "And I have the dates for the family visits during the Season," I said softly, reminding him too of that occasion.

His breath caught. Thank goodness. If he didn't think that particular moment was as momentous as I did, I would be truly hurt.

The night before I left Yorkshire, we'd celebrated an early Christmas with the servants' ball.

Initially Mr Carson had told me I was to return to London two days after the ball, but the train time table had been altered for the Christmas period, meaning I had to leave Yorkshire earlier than we'd planned.

Although the ball was going off without a hitch, my recent illness was making me just testy enough to question the opulence the family were displaying. Many families were not flaunting their wealth this year.

The scent of pine from the freshly cut Christmas tree filled the room. Decorations in the shapes of apples, butterflies, snowmen and angels glistened in the muted light. Glass baubles, brought especially from Venice I later discovered, shimmied against flickering candles which emitted the occasional scorching odour when Mr Carson or Thomas moved to extinguish those which had melted too low amongst the tree's branches.

Outside there was a threat of snow, but inside fires roared and the wealthy guests dressed in loose silk-lined gowns or thin garments that revealed far too much skin. In contrast, the servants' clothes looked dowdy and shabby and the disparity of wealth depressed me further.

I'd chosen to wear my usual housekeeper's dress. I doubted anyone would notice my one piece of showiness which was my favourite marcasite brooch pinned to my lapel.

The Grantham men were adept in making even the most lowly servant comfortable and I managed to get through the formality of dancing with the family without tripping up or becoming tongue-tied once.

As the young Mr Matthew's hand slid from under my arm and he returned me to the side of the dance floor, my pessimistic mood had me wondering if my polite replies to his polite questions would be forgotten as soon as he wandered from the ballroom.

Out of the corner of my eye I'd seen Mr Carson dance with Lady Grantham, the Dowager, and Mr Matthew's mother, Mrs Crawley. I spied the three Crawley sisters milling around near the edge of the dance floor and sighed. Lady Mary would want to dance with her beloved butler and her sisters would try and one-up her by insisting on dancing with him also.

If I added the postmistress, the school teacher, and the dressmaker, who'd all been invited from the village, I could see no chance of making it onto Mr Carson's dance card any time soon.

I contented myself with accepting Dr Clarkson, Reverend Travis and Mr Jarvis's bowing requests.

As the night wore on, I found it even more difficult to evoke any gaiety. Just before nine, my energy wanned and before a coughing fit could take hold, I slipped through the green baize door which led to the kitchen to compose myself. There were drinks on offer in the ballroom, all manner of them actually, but was not keen on partaking in front of an audience.

It was quite eerie, the quietness of downstairs. Though the youngest maids and hallboys were not yet invited to the ball, they had been given an extra half day off to visit their families.

I was in the kitchen swamping down a glass of water when I realised I was no longer alone as I'd wished. I remained calm, however. I knew the tread of the man approaching me from behind.

"You are unwell, Mrs Hughes?"

I determinedly took another sip of water even though the liquid splashed around the glass from my slightly shaking hands.

"Mrs Hughes?" he prompted.

"I'm quite all right," I murmured before turning. His face would be my downfall. His features were etched with worry. My body sagged and I needed to grip the sink behind me to stay upright.

He stepped closer following my reaction and gripped my upper arms. "Mrs Hughes!"

"I'm fine," I said quickly to abate his panic. "You should go back to the ballroom." I'm sure I was babbling, but it was his fault entirely. How could I think straight when his fingers were biting into my arms so… Could he lift me bodily? Was he so strong? I took a couple of deep breaths to steady my silly thoughts. "Your potential dance partners will-"

"I have one here," he interrupted, "almost in my arms."

I gasped at the audacity of his suggestion. Yet when his grip eased slightly, I let go of the sink and stepped forward, giving him permission enough to manoeuvre us into the stance of dancing partners. He plucked one my hands and placed it upon his shoulder and simultaneously we clasped our other hands together. His touch felt cool yet comforting.

"I can't hear the music," I noted.

"Nevermind," he murmured, leading us into a slow waltz.

"You could sing. You have a lovely voice."

I looked up when he misstepped at this comment. From this angle, I could just see his expression and he looked almost stricken. It wasn't like him. He usually took compliments with aplomb.

"I meant… When you sang the carols, you sounded quite professional."

Surprisingly, he almost stumbled again. I squeezed his hand, letting him know without words that I was not meaning to be offensive and eventually he began to relax into the movement of our dancing once more.

He never took up my suggestion of singing, but I didn't mind. We silently slid around the kitchen, dodging the table deftly. It occurred to me that we were dancing for the sole reason that we wished to dance. This wasn't a lesson. Nor was this Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes putting on a display of solidarity for the staff. We were simply Charlie and Elsie enjoying each other's company.

Despite this, we still kept our stances appropriate. I never gave in to the yearning I had to place my cheek upon his chest.

The pounding of boots descending the stairs stopped us in our cavorting. Initially, we dropped hands and took a couple of steps backwards. And by the time the intruders (Mrs Patmore and Thomas) entered the kitchen, we were positioned either side of the kitchen table.

"What's this then?" Mrs Patmore still asked as she entered her usual domain.

Thomas's head swivelled from his leader to me and back again.

"Mrs Hughes is leaving in the morning," Mr Carson announced unnecessarily. He'd already told the staff earlier.

"And that means you sneak down to my kitchen?" Mrs Patmore peered at the utensils spread out upon the benches and then peered at me accusingly. "You haven't touched anything, have you?"

"Touched what?" Mr Carson bellowed.

"I don't need the likes of you two coming in and moving things around. I've got a place for everything," she ranted.

I studied Mrs Patmore's ruddy appearance. Had she imbibed too much drink?

"What if I placed my hand on the wrong ingredient because it wasn't in the right place-"

"I hardly think it likely that Mr Carson and I were secretly down here on some mission to rearrange your kitchen," I pointed out tartly.

"Just what are you down here for then?" she squeaked.

My eyes drifted, all of their own accord, to Mr Carson's hands. I could still feel the tingle where he'd gripped me about my waist.

Mr Carson spoke then, with an explanation I'd not foreseen. "I just asked Mrs Hughes to come down here so I could give her a list of dates the family would be visiting the London house." Smoothly he reached into his inside coat pocket and drew out a piece of paper. Next, he passed it off to me and, with a haughty look in Mrs Patmore's general direction, swept up the stairs.

"Well! I ask a simple question and he flounces off like a snooty toff!"

"A simple question?" I repeated, flummoxed. "His attitude was all very deserved, I'd say." I was completely on Mr Carson's side in this argument. After all, Mrs Patmore was the one who'd charged into the kitchen like a bull in a chinashop.

"Oh, nice. Now you're at it?" She swung around to Thomas, who was lapping up every word passing between the three senior servants with a spoon. "Would you like to tell me how to do things too?" she asked the younger lad.

"No, Mrs Patmore. I think you're doing a fine enough job."

She snorted through her nose and I took this opportunity to leave the room. I didn't go back to the ballroom, however. I climbed the stairs all the way to the attics, hoping, and assuming, Mr Carson would pass on my apologies to those still making merry.

Now, it seemed we'd gotten to the bottom of Mrs Patmore's behaviour. Mine, however, could not be so easily explained away as a medical condition.

"Date?" I asked again, confused.

"Mrs Bute needs to know what date she will be required to come to London."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N I apologise for the break in posting this fic. I have had a busy first term at work since the xmas break and have returned home mentally exhausted each night. I'm about to enjoy three long weekends in a row though and plan to spend at least some of my time catching up on some writing.**

Chapter 12:

I came out from behind my desk after Mr Carson had posed his question regarding when Mrs Bute should come to London.

"Mrs Bute needs to come to London? You're not going to tell me she needs medical attention also?" I asked, my idea of a joke but later I would wonder if my delivery had been less than humorous. "Whatever is in Yorkshire water, Mr Carson?"

"She is quite insistent that she interview perspective housekeepers," Mr Carson went on, sobering me. "She is happy for one of us to place the advertisements for the position, and to even contact an agency for a list of names, but she is keen to choose your replacement herself."

"My replacement?" I asked raggedly, taking a pace closer in my immediate distress.

"She was put out that I didn't consult her when hiring you."

I twisted my lips, wondering if she thought Mr Carson had made a grave error in judgement when he'd offered me the position. From the way Mr Carson had worded it, Mrs Bute sounded quite negative, despite our limited dealings. To get too angry or imperious about this, however, would be hypocritical. Mrs Bute was not my favourite - for no particular reason at all.

"She believes I was…distracted when I interviewed you for the position."

I blinked, if anyone was distracted that day it had been me.

I'd arrived promptly for the pre-arranged time, to be shown into the butler's pantry by Mrs Tomkinson, where she'd left me to wait for Mr Carson, with a warning 'not to touch anything, mind you'.

I'd lowered myself into his visitors' chair and studied the room for any clue as to Mr Carson's personality. It was neat and tidy, and there were no personal curiosities on display to give me any indication as to his nature.

Every butler, I recognised, had his own idiosyncrasies. Mr Taylor, the butler at my previous place of employment, had been an aloof man who'd left the female staff to their own devices. This arrangement had many good and bad points that the housekeeper and maids needed to sidestep and negotiate accordingly.

Luckily, Mrs Sullivan, the housekeeper, was a good woman, as was the family who'd employed me. In fact, I would have been happy to continue in that position, head housemaid, but for the increase in Becky's care payments. London seemed a logical place to seek out a higher paid position. Unfortunately, as it turned out, the Season started in two weeks time and I was yet to find employment.

I wrung my hands together in my lap. The idea of going back to Preston with hat in hand was a sad prospect. Yet to accept a maid's position, as the agency informed me would be the next step should I be unsuccessful in securing that of a housekeeper's, would also be a most distressing outcome.

I needed to impress this butler.

On my way to St James Square I'd pondered whether being interviewed by only the butler, with no current housekeeper or family member present, was an advantage or not. I was still undecided.

Butlers had the tendency to prefer subservient staff, a role I was not adept in playing. My father was fond of saying my tongue was too sharp, my temper too short, and my modesty too scarce, for any man. He had not thought these endearing traits.

"Don't think you can rely on your looks either, lass. You'll need to keep your wits about you, I suppose," he'd say with a sad shake of his head.

Of course, his advice was meant for the perspective (and mythical) man I should marry, but it still suited the situation today.

Just then I heard the robust thud of steps approaching, ending any further thoughts of my father's criticism. Primly, I balanced closer to the edge of the seat and waited.

The pantry door groaned open and quite an articulate accent greeted me with an apology: "Sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Hughes."

A dark haired broad shouldered man, smartly attired in a black morning coat with matching waistcoat and tie covering a pristinely pressed white shirt squeezed in behind his small desk. "I had a few last minute emergencies." His deep voice vibrated right through me. "Let's see…"

As he flipped through some papers on the desk, I took the opportunity to see, certainly. I saw a man a few years older than me; not at all elderly. The agency had told me Mr Carson had been the Granthams' butler for many years and I'd automatically assumed he would be decrepit. This certainly wasn't the case.

"Now!" He clapped his hands together. Hands that were large enough that they might encircle my entire waist should he…

I gasped at my nonsensical thoughts, causing him to look up. Rich brown eyes widened and the thick eyebrows which embellished them rose.

"You're not…"

I wondered what silly expression was on my face that he should not complete his sentence.

He cleared his throat before looking down again to peruse the page containing my credentials, exposing his prominent aquiline nose to my inspection. It dominated his face and demanded my attention.

"You've not been in London long," he finally finished, making his statement also a question.

I took a deep breath and silently gave myself a good talking to instead of replying immediately. Footmen and butlers were often employed on the basis of their looks. A mature housekeeper should be more accustomed to a handsome continence. Acting like a ninny at one's interview was not the best way to convey confidence.

"Not long, no," I eventually said before going on to give a detailed account of my work experience up to this point.

When I'd finished rattling off the major points, I paused, waiting for him to ask more questions. He remained silent, however, his mouth a straight stern line as he studied me intently.

I bit my bottom lip, hoping my earlier flustered state hadn't spoiled my chances of appearing sensible and competent.

Eventually he cleared his throat again before his gaze slowly lowered to take in my appearance. I was wearing my best dress, a simple shift of dark green material which a fellow maid, Agnes, had embellished with two vertical rows of raised stitching from collar to waist. I pushed my shoulders back proudly. What sort of maid could afford silken threads?

His mouth pursed and he looked away and down to his notes. "Not being English might prove to be a difficulty," he murmured, almost to himself.

"I am quite fluent in the language," I replied before I could bite my tongue.

He whipped his head up and glowered.

This was not going well at all…

"My references…" I held out an envelope in his direction, only to become more flustered when he never reached out to take it from my grasp.

I flushed and closed my eyes briefly, determinedly placing the envelope on the edge of his desk. From his demeanour I assumed I'd presented myself hopelessly and he would probably not even wish to read anything my former employers had to say.

"Obviously I've not presented myself in a favourable light," I repeated the sentiment aloud before I stood, scraping the chair across the floor noisily. "Thank you for your time, Mr Carson," I managed to add as I saw myself out.

I had trudged back to my boarding house with no real urgency. The agency would probably wash their hands of me once Mr Carson reported my behaviour.

"I was surprised that I had been successful," I said now, after reflecting on the interview's awkwardness and brevity. A letter had been delivered early the next morning advising me of the successful outcome along with a proposed starting date and salary. "I assume your applicant pool was limited," I mused.

Mr Carson made a rumbling noise at the back of his throat and didn't reveal any details. Not that I thought he would. He would never be so indiscreet. I did have one more thought, however that might explain my unexpected placement.

"Did Miss O'Brien apply for the position?" I wondered. It could also explain her less than enthusiastic response to my company.

"Not exactly. She more or less expected it to be handed to her on a platter, and that raised my ire more than anything."

I laughed at that comment, breaking the tension between us.

"Besides, my innate faith in your abilities has been well rewarded."

I could blame my sleep deprivation again later for my reaction to his simple words of praise. I reached out and touched the back of his hand.

"If you should think Mrs Bute needs to find a replacement because I am leaving, you are incorrect. I do not plan on abandoning you just yet, Mr Carson," I vowed.

He stared down at his hand, where mine had rested but a moment ago. It had been a fleeting touch, one which would have been deemed appropriate given our stations. I believed it had been enough, however, to convey my heartwarming gratitude that he should speak of me in such terms.

A knock on the door announcing Anna, who'd come to summon Mr Carson for Lady Mary roused us both from our thoughts. Before departing though, Mr Carson did offer a declaration which, despite my tiredness from my adventurous exploits on its eve, boosted my spirits for the first day of the year.

"I will telephone Mrs Bute and let her know she will definitely not be required in London."


	13. Chapter 13

When Mrs Patmore stepped off the train alone I gave myself a mental shake for having hoped there might be some reason a butler should get involved in a cook's hospitalisation.

My relationship with Mrs Patmore up to this point had been slightly awkward. Other than one or two brief encounters, we'd kept all our dealings on a professional level, or less than professional if I thought about her carry on about keys. Soon, however, I began to look upon her bluster in a different light. I even came to the conclusion that she and I were very alike.

At the hospital, a big-boned nurse, who introduced herself as Matron Chapman, led us along a hallway. The woman barked instructions to other, obviously more junior, nurses as we passed several crowded wards until we reached the one in which Mrs Patmore was to stay. It was, like the other wards, painted a stark white but, unlike the others, it only contained two low single beds, one on either side of the room. They too were white with white sheets stretched taut across their sagging mattresses. Both were empty.

While I was wondering whether or not the Granthams had arranged for this less public room, Matron Chapman pointed to the bed closest to the door and Mrs Patmore gingerly perched on its edge.

A metal locker (even it was painted white) served as a bedside table. I glanced around for somewhere to stow away Mrs Patmore's coat and bag, but the only other piece of furniture in the room was a high table in its centre, presumably for patients' flowers, although there were none on display at the moment.

Matron Chapman whipped out a bell from beneath the folds of her pinafore and placed it on top of the locker. "It's for emergencies _only,_ " she warned. "I don't expect to hear it _before_ your operation at all."

"Thank you, Matron, I think we have the procedure for bells down pat," I said, striving to break the tension with some humour.

Clearly not impressed, the nurse sniffed before rattling off a list of rules, directions to the facilities on the floor, and visiting hours.

"Any questions?" she asked, in a tone that suggested we shouldn't need to ask any questions at all.

"Well, I was wondering, when do I get to meet the doctor?" Mrs Patmore asked.

"You'll meet the doctor when he does his rounds. He visits _all_ patients then," the head nurse said, in a tone that indeed suggested Mrs Patmore _was_ receiving special treatment and she wasn't particularly happy about that fact.

"It's just that I hoped to get some more details before the operation," Mrs Patmore bravely went on.

"The doctor is the only one who needs to know the details," the matron briskly replied. "Let's leave it to him, shall we?"

Then, with one last false smile, she sailed out of the room.

"Off to spread her cheer and calm patients on other wards," I remarked dryly as I watched her stalk off down the corridor. Then, I turned to Mrs Patmore and added: "Let's hope the doctor has a bedside manner than the matron."

My comments elicited a - perhaps hysterical - howl of laughter from Mrs Patmore. And, somehow, from that moment on, she and I forged a warm friendship.

In fact, that night, I lay in bed, tossing and turning, and realised I could easily now share confidences with her. I thought I might tell her about Joe and the reasons why I refused his proposal. I thought she might then tell me she hadn't come down in the last shower.

I could perhaps even tell her about the conversation I had with Mr Carson on the first of January regarding the proposal.

After everyone had retired that evening, Mr Carson and I found ourselves sitting side by side at the small polished table I'd brought back from Yorkshire, a decanter of red wine placed upon its centre. The alcohol and my tiredness from the new year's celebrations were probably not the best mix, I should admit later. My mind became languid and I far too easily allowed Mr Carson to steer the conversation onto subjects I would have liked to avoided.

"Mrs Tomkinson told us of your gentleman caller, of course," he informed me.

"I'm sure she relished every last detail." I took another sip of drink, letting its heat relax me further. "Do you not think she might have embellished the tale?" I grumbled. I would have liked Mr Carson to trust me, to be on my side, to take my word over not only Mrs Tomkinson's but everyone else's.

"It's not true then that you were cavorting around London last night to all hours?''

I flushed thinking of the outfit I had been wearing that morning. It clearly wasn't tailored for work. But... "Cavorting?" I snorted, unbothered (or incapable) with debating the point or invoking a sharp tone.

"It is not true he asked for your hand in marriage?" he asked softly.

If Mr Carson had asked this accusingly or reproachfully, I would have probably immediately sobered up and refused to say another word. As it was, I quietly confessed: "We walked out. And yes, he proposed."

"He'd be a fool not to. Is it true he's a farmer?" he asked with a hint of disgust.

"Yes." I smiled softly, nostalgically. "But I won't hold that against him. I'm a daughter of a farmer."

"You're a woman who has carved out a successful career," he barked out pompously.

The nice thing about Mr Carson was that he meant this compliment completely. He was proud of his position, and equally respectful of other senior staff.

"I was sixteen. I'd just started working with my first family, the Ardens. Joe was a local farmer, he'd supplied the family with eggs and milk. We got to chatting when he'd make his deliveries."

"I suppose this is how these things start for young women."

I flashed him a look. His impassive face wasn't advertising what he meant by that comment.

"He never took advantage," I stressed. "He was very nice. He brought me extra eggs."

"And that's all it took?"

Whether or not he had made that comment in jest, it still made me laugh merrily. I went on, calmer somehow, despite speaking about a past love to a man in charge of my employment. "He proposed the same day I was offered the position of head housemaid in a bigger house in Preston." I shrugged. "I accepted the job."

"But you kept in touch?" he mused, logically given Joe's contact.

How would I explain how Joe knew of my whereabouts without explaining about Becky? I knew I couldn't give Mr Carson a complete untruth, so I settled on avoiding the direct answer. "He came to London with his son and looked me up. He's gone home now."

We sat silently for a long while, so long that my eyes and head grew heavy. However, he roused me completely with his next statement.

"As I suspect any man would, when a comely lady refuses him not once, but twice in a lifetime."

I blinked in his direction and for the first time noticed that dark circles also ringed his eyes and his mouth was drooped slightly. He might have feasibly slept as little as I had. I'd missed his arrival; he'd caught a late train. And although he hadn't been downstairs when I'd arrived back at the house with Joe, that didn't mean he hadn't seen in the new year and retired not too long before I had. Yes, he was obviously being completely fanciful in his praise of my looks due to his own lack of sleep.

I took it as a sign that we should both retire.

I stood. "Yes, I refused him," I confirmed, "but I'm quite certain he wasn't too heartbroken," I said as I checked the room for anything I should do before I headed upstairs.

"Why not?" he asked, sounding perturbed as he too stood, tidying the decanter and our glasses as he did.

I sighed. I didn't want to admit the embarrassing way Joe had rejected my feminine countenance completely. "I don't think he'd agree with your description of me," is all I said as we walked towards the stairs which led to our bedrooms, "but I thank you anyway for the sentiment."

"I was feeling sorry for him, but if that's the case, I care less for his predicament. He deserves your refusal, and I'm only sad that you did it so politely."

I frowned at his broad back climbing the stairs ahead of me. "How do you know I refused him politely?"

"Because Mrs Hughes," he said, glancing over his shoulder, "I know you."

"Do you now," I wondered, pausing in my ascent. A few more steps would bring us to the landing where we would need to go our separate ways. When any male staff were in residence, I only opened the door on the left that led to their rooms between the hours of nine and ten every other day, to put out new towels and make up the beds.

"This farmer might have been uncouth-."

"He wasn't uncouth-"

"-but there is no way you would ever be so."

I clutched the handrail and stared up at the man who I realised was a good friend as well as a colleague. Again, he was sincere with his praise. He would never falsely flatter anyone.

He moved down one step - closer - but I still needed to crane my neck to attempt to read his expression. Though I knew he was not angry with me, nor would he now accuse me of acting inappropriately with Joe in any way, which I had got into a bit of a state about originally.

"True, I might be making assumptions as to the personality of this farmer, but I know you, Mrs Hughes," he murmured.

"Thank you for that."

Yes, I would have liked to have told Mrs Patmore how Mr Carson and I stood on the stairs for far too long after I'd uttered my gratitude. I would have liked to hear her opinion on what it meant that I knew, even in the dim light of the stairs, that his gaze had travelled to my face... my lips... I could have confided that I found marks on the timber rail the next day from where my nails had dug in as I gripped it so tightly to prevent me from climbing the stairs and making a complete fool of myself.

I didn't, of course.

The next morning when I visited Mrs Patmore, I couldn't bring up the subject at all. The diminutive figure with bandages wrapped around her eyes lying in the hospital bed did not need me speaking stuff and nonsense to add to her burdens. Apparently there would be no certainty that the operation was a success for another week

"It's fine to admit you're scared," I soothed. "You have a respectful position which bestows you quite a bit of independence. This is one situation you can't control. It's no wonder that you're feeling a little helpless. But you're a strong person and you'll be back at work before you know it, and-" I paused. I realised that my advice was just as much about my situation with Mr Carson as it was about her eyesight.

"Or Mrs Bird will be," she moaned when I didn't go on.

"At least it's not Mrs Tomkinson. She's practically breaking plates over not going to Yorkshire," I gossiped.

"She's a scheming witch."

I laughed.

"If Mrs Tomkinson went to Yorkshire and impressed, and then during the Season impressed again, she might put the idea in Mr Carson's head that she and I should change places permanently."

I stopped smiling instantly and shivered. A crisp wind was finding its way through the gaps around the window sills.

I stood and fetched a blanket from the foot of the other, still empty, bed. Then, after plumping up the pillows behind Mrs Patmore's head, I poured a glass of water from a jug sitting on the squat bedside locker. All to distract myself from the reality that I might have had similar plans when I filled in for Mrs Bute before Christmas.

If Mrs Patmore thought Mrs Tomkinson a scheming witch, it made sense that I could be accused of being one also.

I couldn't help but wonder if Mrs Bute considered me in such a light. And, even more distressing, I couldn't help but wonder if the other woman had suggested as much to Mr Carson.


	14. Chapter 14

At the end of January the family, and quite a few of the Yorkshire servants, arrived for the Season.

Entering via the back door of the London residence, the Downton based staff excitedly filled the basement rooms with an energetic chatter which brought me out of my sitting room.

As I strode along the hallway, Mr Carson's voice echoed off the walls, barking orders in his strictest tone. This should have been a warning to me, but I still entered the dining room happily with an eager smile of greeting.

Everyone approached to greet me in return - except for Mr Carson.

I was a little shocked when Mr Carson never even nodded in my direction. His shoulders were tense and he continued reminding everyone that they were here in the city to tend to the family, not to engage in any tomfoolery.

I frowned, confused and feeling for sure his lecture was aimed firmly at me. Surely he had, after all, already listed the expected behaviour of the Downton staff prior to their arrival.

So, industriously, I carried out my duties that day, avoiding any activity which might be looked upon as dilly dallying. I skipped luncheon and spent the day allocating rooms, organising linen, and approving menus.

As my appetite had been suppressed for almost the entire day, I collapsed into my allocated chair in the servant's dining room without any particular enthusiasm for what Mrs Tomkinson placed before me.

"Mrs Hughes…"

Mr Carson had taken his seat at the head of the table. It wasn't that I hadn't noticed, of course I had, I always felt his presence. But I had chosen to firmly ignore him. He had not thought to consult me once throughout the day. Any orders I'd been given had come via Thomas or William.

"Mrs Hughes," he repeated.

Biting my lip, I looked up at my work friend, but he was still not interested in any affable small talk and he merely wanted to offer me a list of dates for the dinner parties the Granthams planned on hosting in the coming weeks.

I would wonder, years later, if the Granthams had a sixth sense that the Season would soon become much less important in the grand scheme of things, thus bringing about the rush to host more events than usual that year.

"My period of idleness has came to an end," I murmured, reading the page.

He neither laughed nor berated me for slacking off when the house was empty. He simply continued to eat dinner without another word.

Later that night I took tea in my sitting room, waiting for the familiar heavy tread to approach my door, but it never did. It was Branson, the chauffeur, who would come and tell me he was locking the house up for the night.

In my room, I went over Mr Carson's last visit. I was sure we had parted on good terms.

After he had told me that he _knew_ me on the stairs on the first day of the year, we'd spent the next night in my sitting room, sharing a couple of glasses of wine and talking into the wee hours before saying goodnight courteously.

His departure, on the morning of the third, had us bidding each other farewell quite civilly. Albeit not as intimately as we'd said goodbye in York, but that was a given as Lady Mary and Anna had also been present.

That farewell, when I'd left Downton just before Christmas, it was only he who had accompanied me to the York station before my train's scheduled departure.

He ensured the crate holding my table was secured before he joined me on the platform.

A light rain had begun to fall and, instead of pressing me to board the train, he'd opened up an umbrella and stepped close to shield me from the drizzle.

We remained there, under the umbrella, without saying a word, for quite a while. Although York station wasn't as busy as Kings Cross, there was still quite a lot of passengers passing by. Not surprising as it was so close to Christmas, I supposed, with people going to visit loved ones. And I…

Suddenly, I felt uncomfortable with the silence. "Mr Tufton thought you might have been a policeman," I ventured.

Mr Carson didn't reply immediately. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if he had forgotten Mr Tufton's name. Only when he finally spoke, in a dry tone, did I realise he knew exactly to whom I was referring.

"I'm quite sure he's had more than one run in with the law," he drawled.

I laughed for the first time in what felt like days - most likely since he'd told me I would need to return to London.

I wondered if Mr Carson would miss someone making him laugh as much as I would.

I swivelled around to blatantly study him. His demeanour would reveal nothing to most, and yet I knew he found our exchange as amusing as I. It was the slight loosening of his stance, the sudden brightness of his dark eyes, the softening shape of his mouth...

I startled when a porter blew his whistle, warning us of the train's imminent departure.

Without another word, staying huddled under the umbrella, I allowed Mr Carson to lead us to the nearest carriage.

I climbed the temporary stairs - determinedly. Once aboard, I turned, planning on thanking him for everything as quickly and emotionlessly as possible. Only I found he was following me. On the top step he was closing his umbrella, leaning out of the carriage to shake it off, tucking it against the side of the train before stepping into the carriage beside me.

"Mr Carson-"

Masterfully, he grasped my elbow and guided me to a spare seat. For a change, he looked awkward, stooping to avoid the overhead compartments, as I stowed away my belongings. It was only when he was apparently satisfied that I was settled that he moved into the aisle where he could unfold his frame somewhat.

A heady feeling of sentimentality about our parting rushed through me. I gave him a crooked smile and returned to our conversation on the platform. "You would make an excellent member of the constabulary," I said softly. "You're a good man, Mr Carson," I added, quite sincere.

He made a grumbling noise at the back of his throat; a familiar noise which now comforted me. And then, that's when he said it. Without warning and so quietly that I would spend the first leg of my journey wondering if I had dreamt it.

"Merry Christmas, Elsie. I shall miss your company."

While I was still blinking with shock, he took his leave. I finally gathered my wits enough to quickly look out the window and see him striding off across to the other side of the station where he would be catching a train in the opposite direction.

I'd gone over his words many times since, of course. And obviously I'd come to the conclusion that he was referring to my company as a housekeeper.

And though our parting at the beginning of this month had been much more mundane, it had not given me any warning of his current brusque behaviour.

Nor had I any inkling during the days between new year and his return. In fact, we had corresponded by letter, and spoke on the telephone many times in the last few weeks. I'd kept him up to date on Mrs Patmore's health; he'd conveyed more of the family's plans for the Season. No harsh words had passed between us for me to anticipate this current mood.

Four days later Mr Carson and I had still not spent an evening alone together, or had one private conversation, so I sought out new company. Mrs Patmore had been discharged from the hospital the day before and installed in one of the attic bedrooms to convalesce.

I pilfered a bottle of sherry from the kitchen when Mrs Tomkinson wasn't looking and warned Mrs Patmore to say not a word as we poured the drink.

"Four meals 'ere and I'm not worried about Mrs Tomkinson anyway," she claimed, pushing her new dark glasses to the bridge of her nose.

"I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate."

"Food's presentation is for the rich, Mrs Hughes, and that's how she's been fooling the Granthams all this time. Everything she serves up is pretty, is it not?"

I thought about Mrs Tomkinson's cakes. The way their icing sometimes almost glistened on the plate, their perfect roundness, her use of contrasting and matching colours.

"The family applaud her efforts, am I right? Their guests ooh and aah over every dish placed before them. And no one is ill mannered enough to dare suggest that all that pretty on the plate tastes like chalk when they put it in their mouth."

I laughed.

"I don't need me eyes." She placed her finger against her edge of her nose. "Aroma and taste. I've discovered that Mrs Tomkinson has neither in her food."

"I had never thought of that before," I confessed truthfully.

"Mr Carson has. I reckon he's a hair's breath away from letting her go."

"What? He hasn't said anything to me," I blustered.

"I 'spect he's keeping her on because of you, Mrs Hughes."

"Because of me?"

"I doubt he'd want to upset you about it."

"He's usually happy for things to look good. Presentation. Display. Appearances." I said this more matter-of-fact than bitterly. I could not admire Mr Carson's stiff upper lip and his polished demeanour on one hand whilst criticising it on the other.

"Yes, I would agree, but you of all people should know that he also appreciates some substance beneath the glitz."

I plucked some imaginary flecks from my skirt. "Me of all people?"

"You don't think he might share more intimacies with you than the rest of the staff, Mrs Hughes?"

"I'm sure he has just as many private conversations with Mrs Bute as he does with me," I declared now to Mrs Patmore.

She made a snorting noise at the back of her throat.

"I'm not the only one who's suffering from lack of sight at the moment." Then, she declared: "Mrs Hughes, Mr Carson is more intimate with a doorknob than he is with Mrs Bute." And, while I was still taking that in: "It's as obvious as the nose on his face that you're his favourite housekeeper."

I stared down at my hands, worrying the folds of my skirts. "Not at the moment, Mrs Patmore," I admitted quietly.

She gave me a confused look, so I quickly relayed Mr Carson's odd behaviour since his arrival in London.

"Someone's put some idea in his head that servants can never be friends, when in fact the only friends we have are our fellow servants. You need to just burst in his room like and demand to know who's put such rubbish into his head."

I frowned. "Who would…"

"Plenty of likely candidates. Mrs Tomkinson. Miss O'Brien."

"Or Thomas?" I noted dryly. "Although I imagine Mr Carson would take no stock in anything he said."

I refused to vocalise the other name that instantly sprung to my mind. Our discussions regarding Mrs Tomkinson and her sour grapes over not replacing Mrs Patmore in Yorkshire made me realise that I had been much too uncharitable towards Mrs Bute.

I'd imagined her a dour cold woman who didn't deserve her position all the while imagining myself as some shining saviour for Downton Abbey. Even if Mr Carson and she were not on intimate terms, I would need to respect her and her position more.

On that note, I bid Mrs Patmore goodnight and slipped down to the kitchen to return the sherry, hoping Mrs Tomkinson didn't notice the two glasses worth missing.

I had to pass Mr Carson's pantry. His light was still on. Could I confront him just as Mrs Patmore had suggested?

Shaking my head in disgust, I hurried to the kitchen, wondering if the alcohol had gone to my head.

But, on my way back to the stairs, my feet slowed as I reached his door again. I glanced up and down the hallway, guilty. No one else was in sight.

So, quickly before my nerves got the better of me, I knocked on the door. Once I'd obeyed his call to 'enter', those nerves returned.

He obviously had not been expecting me to be his visitor. He swayed a little as he stood for my entry. His eyebrows almost reached his hairline. His mouth gaped.

"Mr Carson," I said, my accent strong.

"Mrs Hughes…"

"Is it Mrs Tomkinson?" I blurted out.

He blinked. "What is?"

"The added guests, the plethora of dinner parties, Mrs Tomkinson's stress levels have risen. As they do, so do her caustic remarks to all and sundry. Mrs Patmore's presence in the house is not helping the situation. But I cannot believe you'd listen to anything she should suggest about the inappropriateness of-"

"Mrs Tomkinson has said nothing," he interrupted.

"My acquaintance with Miss O'Brien has been brief, I can only imagine-"

"I don't take counsel from Miss O'Brien," he snapped, never letting me finish my sentence again.

I inhaled deeply, pleased and yet not.

"Then…" I swallowed, literally, and figuratively my pride. "I'm sorry if I've upset you in some way. I don't like this walking on eggshells and-"

"You have done nothing." He stepped closer. "It is I who should be apologising. It is I who should be explaining."

I waited, but he didn't follow through with his last statement. We'd shared silences before, but this was not a comfortable one. He just stood, a few feet in front of me, his face stricken as much as mine, I supposed. Finally, I thought I would need to prod him to further elaborate.

"Is it Mrs Bute?" I wondered aloud, despite my earlier resolve to remain charitable to the woman I had yet to meet.

"Yes," he admitted slowly. "Well, at least partly."

I shook my head, wondering who Mrs Bute was on close enough terms to connive with and upset Mr Carson to such an extent that he'd turn his back on our friendship.

"Partly?" I prompted.

"It's she and Lady Mary."


	15. Chapter 15

**As usual, apologies for my delay. Thank you to those who are continuing to read and special thank you to those who are continuing to review.**

 **PS RL events in this chapter all happened, but obviously I've used a little licence when it comes to the time settings.**

My half day fell on the last day of December, a day which dawned with the promise of clear skies after a prolonged period of brisk and drizzly weather, so I decided to chance a visit to Betsy and her wee bairn.

After lunch Mrs Tomkinson helped me pack a basket. Along with the booties and bonnets I'd knitted, we added enough bottles of jam and preserves to get the lass through for a couple of months at least.

"I've made an apple teacake for your afternoon tea too."

Without Betsy in the house to moderate, Mrs Tomkinson and I could have quite easily suffocated in a tense atmosphere. Instead, we did our best to maintain a semblance of friendship, albeit one borne from necessity rather than choice. And we had, like now, rare moments of harmony.

I still found it much easier to share confidences and talk freely with Mrs Patmore than the London cook, however. Not that I'd seen Mrs Patmore in person for quite some time. Sadly, not since she'd returned to Yorkshire after her operation. We'd had to continue our friendship with the lively exchange of letters and telephone calls. She kept me up to date on the comings and goings at Downton Abbey.

Of course, Mrs Tomkinson was not under my feet as much as she could have been. The family rarely visited London since the bombing raids had begun and they often opted to stay with Lady Painswick if they did. As such, Mrs Tomkinson's hours had been cut accordingly. She spent weekends with her sister-in-law now, helping out where she could since her brother had been killed on a field in France.

This was the major reason she and I had not crossed swords of late. There were bigger problems in the world than our fragile alliance.

The route I followed when I left Grantham House only served to emphasise that fact.

I cut through the park where the lake had been drained of its water so that the Germans couldn't use its reflection as a guide. The recruitment placards outside of Scotland Yard caught my attention despite my best efforts to ignore them and the next wave of young men who would need to report to duty. And, as I passed by Big Ben, I couldn't help but be distressed at the clock tower's still hands.

There certainly wouldn't be any bells ringing tonight at midnight. Tonight London would remain as dark and quiet as possible.

It was difficult to believe it had already been two years since I'd been here with Joe to cheer in the new year. Two years since I'd refused his proposal and instead chosen the life of a housekeeper.

I believe it had been the correct decision - I would have not made Joe happy - but I did feel twinges of regret every so often. Especially given the change in my role. Today I am more of a caretaker than a housekeeper.

Hoping to shake myself out of my funk, I continued on and concentrated on presenting Betsy with a cheery disposition.

Betsy and Reg had married within a week of their first meeting. They claimed they had no time to wait and I suppose they didn't, considering Reg was sent to the Front less than three months after Betsy learned she was pregnant.

The bairn was tiny and red and blessed with a good set of lungs. I set about doing what chores I could while Betsy fed him.

The first floor flat was far too small for the amount of clothes I needed to peg onto the makeshift lines strung up around the kitchen, but there was a nice heat coming from the wood stove, at least. I also managed to get a soup made and simmering on its top, proving I wasn't always a terrible cook when Mr Carson wasn't around to peer over my shoulder.

Next, I boiled the kettle. "Now that he's got a full belly, you relax and let me see if I can get him to sleep," I offered as I placed a cup of tea and a thick wedge of the cake in front of the new mother.

"Reg made that," Betsy told me as I settled down into a lovely rocking chair, cooing softly at the sweet smelling infant. "He worked through the night on it when I told him I was pregnant. Finished it just in time, he did."

I bit down on my bottom lip at the memories she evoked of Mr Carson working through the night to polish my small table. It would be disrespectful of me to compare the two.

"I wrote to Reg to tell him he had a son over a week ago and I still haven't heard," she said.

"Don't fret. I'm sure receiving and sending letters from the Front is a challenge," I said with confidence I hardly felt. The odds were not good.

"Charlie looks just like him, you know."

I ran my fingers across the small amount of downy hair covering the child's head. "He's a bonny lad," I agreed softly. "Charlie…"

I would wonder if Betsy's choice of name for her child influenced my decision that day, because instead of returning immediately to Grantham House after my time at Betsy's, I found myself travelling to Kensington and hovering outside an impressive brick building.

I watched the parade of men exiting the building's wide front double doors, squashing their hats onto their heads, puffing furiously on cigarettes, scribbling frantically in their notebooks.

I took a few steps nearer until I could read the plaque which announced the occupants of the building. The editor was unknown to me, but the owner had aided and abetted in breaking my heart.

"Lady Mary?" I'd asked Mr Carson at the start of the 1914 Season, when I'd confronted him about his odd behaviour since returning to London. "Whatever does Lady Mary have to do with you avoiding my company?" I'd specified, hurt. "Has she initiated a new rule? One that disapproves of a butler socialising with the housekeeper?"

"No, no. Of course not." He waved his hand towards a chair, indicating I should sit. I obeyed without thinking, although he still stalked and circled around the sitting room like a caged lion. "Lady Mary is to marry Sir Richard Carlisle."

"There's been an announcement?" I wondered aloud.

"No," he said, firm. "But there is an understanding."

I nodded slowly, although I still didn't understand what the pending nuptials had to do with his temper of late.

"Lady Mary has always been my favourite of the Crawley sisters," he stated, as if he was telling me something new. "Sir Richard has purchased Haxby. It is where they plan to reside."

My expression was neutral. I had no idea where Haxby was and I didn't need to ask as Mr Carson continued on, explaining the house's location and size.

"It sounds perfect for the newlyweds," I said after he relayed the details of the estate. I even allowed myself an excited smile of anticipation. If I knew Mr Carson and Lady Mary half as well as I thought I did, I knew he would be joining her at her new residence. Lady Mary would surely offer him a free reign over staff…

I sat up straighter in my chair, alert. He would need a reliable housekeeper.

"I wasn't sure how to tell you," he said "Only…" He hesitated for long enough that I knew his next words were going to cause me distress. "I hope you and the new butler will work harmoniously."

There would be no offer for me to join him at Haxby.

"Excuse me, love."

I jumped as a man, most likely a reporter, knocked me awkwardly as he sailed into the building, his news story his entire focus just as mine was with my memories of Mr Carson.

I wondered now how often Mr Carson came to London. He and Lady Mary had not stayed at Grantham House since war had been declared, but that didn't mean he did not come to the city. I could quite easily imagine Sir Richard insisting he and Lady Mary stay here in Kensington, to be near his newspaper office.

I searched the streets now, like some unhinged young floozy, for Mr Carson's tall frame, as if I expected him to be in London just at this precise moment. He might very well gracefully stride around the corner, the slight swirl of mist that was gathering as the day came to the end acting as a dramatic backdrop for his appearance. Once he saw and recognised me, he would sweep me into his arms, declaring how much he had missed my company and…

I shook my head and checked the time. It must have been time enough for me to return to Grantham House if I was getting so fanciful with my daydreams.

It was true, however, that Mr Carson could possibly have been in London on several occasions without me knowing. We could have caught the same train, shopped in the same store, and I would never know. It was possible even that I could have walked right by without knowing, distracted by something happening in the other direction.

I laughed to myself. Could I ever be so distracted that I would not instantly recognise Mr Carson's bulky physique should we pass along the the street? As if I would not recognise the way he carried himself, holding his shoulders back when on duty. I would always know the slight stoop that came about when he relaxed, knowing the family were out of sight. The way he held his hand out, politely offering others to precede him.

I entered the house through the back door. Mrs Tomkinson was nowhere in sight, so I set to work on making myself another cup of tea, mentally running through the list of chores I planned on attending to in the morning. It wasn't long.

Most of the house's furniture was covered with dust sheets, and tending to the remainder took little time and effort. Should an impromptu visit occur, Mrs Patmore would telephone with an inventory. We had all become quite adept with the communication device, at least. I even spoke with Mrs Bute now and then.

"What does Mrs Bute have to do with you going to Haxby?" I'd asked the day Mr Carson announced his Haxby position. I'd remembered he'd said Lady Mary _and_ Mrs Bute were to blame for his mood.

"Mrs Bute has…" Mr Carson stopped his pacing, cleared his throat and looked over my head, staring at the wall behind me. "She has made suggestions of impropriety between two members of staff."

I frowned, wondering just who Mrs Bute had caught in an uncompromising position. For some time I had realised that William was sweet on Daisy, but I could not imagine the lad acting on that impulse in a harmful manner. I didn't think-

I started. Mrs Bute was going to dare to accuse Mr Carson and I of…

"I could be guilty of…" I didn't finish the sentence, but it was true. I held Mr Carson in some esteem these days and was guilty of contemplating him in ways that were not strictly professional. This I would admit to myself now, at least. Members of staff were kept apart should they be distracted and their work be neglected. This, too, was something of which I was guilty.

"I'll resign-"

"What?" Mr Carson almost shouted the interruption.

"I mean," I continued after taking a deep trembling breath, "if she should think someone is acting that way. You are far too important to the family and I'll-"

"I would soon set her straight about any accusations she might throw in your direction, Mrs Hughes," he said. "Besides, if I'm to be at Haxby and you here in London, I hardly think she should worry about anything improper occurring between us."

"No," I concurred in a quiet voice. "Then who?" I prompted.

"Anna. Anna and Mr Bates."

"Oh." I looked down at my toes as Mr Carson continued to stare at the wall. We both knew, I think, that Mrs Bute was quite correct with her suspicions. We'd both had the same ones and, as far as I knew, we were both guilty of ignoring them.

"Mrs Bute has threatened dismissing Anna without a reference."

I took a sharp breath but remained mute. No strong defence came to mind.

"She's…suggested…that Anna be employed at Haxby whilst Mr Bates remains at Downton."

"Suggested," I hissed between clenched teeth.

"Yes."

I concentrated on breathing steadily, calming my temper which threatened to overwhelm me.

"I've let you down," Mr Carson murmured quietly after several minutes.

"How in heaven's name would you think you've done that?" I instantly denied.

"I know how much you wanted to go to the country. Leave London."

"I'd rather cope with London if it means Anna isn't dismissed," I stressed. "She'll be a very good housekeeper," I added.

"Ladies maid," he corrected me.

I frowned, if she was to be ladies maid... I scraped the chair back as I stood, far too quickly. "Then, Haxby still needs a housekeeper?"

"Haxby already has a housekeeper in residence. It would be completely improper of me to replace her."

I swallowed. "Of course," I agreed, lowering my eyes, embarrassed by my eagerness. He was correct, of course. I would never like Mr Carson so much if he had suggested replacing the housekeeper already in residence.

"Mrs Bute has-"

The shrill piercing sound of a whistle jerked me back to the here and now. It was coming from outside.

Without thinking, I stood and opened the back door. I could hear someone shouting from the street and then, another whistle blast.

I looked up; I could hear the rumble of thunder. Odd, I thought, considering how clear of clouds the sky had remained.

It was then that it occurred to me that it wasn't thunder but bombs echoing in the distance. The whistle was being blown by a policeman enacting the new warning system the government had put in place for zeppelin attacks.

Before I could react to either reality further, however, I was distracted by a deep impatient growl near my ear, "What on earth are you doing out here in the open?"

I spun around, recognising the voice immediately. Its owner's dark clothes blended into the night, only the white shirt he wore underneath giving him definition. "Charlie?" I wondered as I reached out and rested my palm against his pristine-as-always shirt, even under these circumstances. His heart beat reassured me that I wasn't actually asleep in my bed and dreaming this entire scenario.

The whistle blasted again, fainter, as the policeman moved into the next suburb. It was immediately followed by the earth vibrating. More bombs had fallen.

He gripped my arm firmly. "Come along, Mrs Hughes," he ordered. "Time for us to seek shelter in the wine cellar," he ordered.


End file.
